


The Brewer and the Beast

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: dramione_remix, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Under the thrall of a full moon, werewolf Hermione Granger slaughtered twenty-three innocent people. Fifteen years later, discontented Potions Master Draco Malfoy interrupts her exile with one objective: to free her from the beast within.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My chosen couple were Belle and the Beast from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast." Here's their (slightly abridged) story:
> 
> Once upon a time, a handsome prince was cursed by an enchantress to live as a hideous beast. Ashamed of what he had become, the Beast resigned himself to a life of self-imprisonment, a sentence abruptly broken by Belle - an uncommon young woman who wanted more than what her provincial life could give. To break the curse, the Beast must earn the love of another. But how can he love another if he cannot love himself? 
> 
> When I say this fic wouldn't have been possible without my betas, **eilonwy** and **dormiensa** , I mean it. Thank you both for the encouragement, plot hole repair, and general aid in helping me turn this beast of a fic into a handsome, word-count-abiding price.

****

**Chapter One**

Healer Charles Ogsworth sat in the lone chair at the center of Courtroom Ten. The full Wizengamot surrounded him on three sides, and the capacity crowd, crammed like sardines onto hard, wooden benches behind him, completed the cage. Charles shifted, moving his hands from the chair’s cold armrests to the warmth of his lap, to smooth his thin white moustache, to fiddle with the gold chain of his pocket watch. 

He didn’t want to be here. 

The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, cleared his throat. Charles sat up a little straighter and began his monologue: a three-minute speech he had written, rewritten, and practiced until he’d dreamt about it, waking his wife with the muttered words. 

“I’ve worked at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for thirty years. I’m Healer-in-Charge of the Creature-Induced Injuries ward. Hermione Jean Granger was admitted to my care on the evening of May 11, 1998. She, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and a few other Ministry officials were near Cardiff, acting on an anonymous tip regarding Death Eater activity in the area. The tip was credible, and a fight ensued.” 

A flicker of light above him and the crowd’s synchronized flinch indicated the appearance of Granger’s admittance photos. He knew them well; he had taken them himself. Her wounds had been gruesome, ragged, and bloody. Her scars were little better. He kept his eyes forward and his gaze unfocused, trying to ignore the lingering shame of his own limitations as a Healer. 

“Ms. Granger's injuries, several of which were creature-induced, were severe. A deep laceration ran from her left shoulder to her left elbow, nearly severing the long head of her biceps brachii. Her left shoulder, collarbone, and neck were damaged by no fewer than twenty separate puncture wounds caused by repeated biting. Ms. Granger's blood loss from these injuries alone was life threatening, but she also suffered from various cuts, bruises, burns, and, of greatest concern to me, a skull fracture on her right temporal bone, resulting in a concussion and a small hemorrhage. A brain bleed," he clarified, off-script, sending a nervous look around the courtroom. 

"I put Ms. Granger into an induced coma for one week to allow her brain to recover and indicated on her care plan that she would need at least one month in the ward for supervised Healing. Provided there were no complications in her treatment, I planned to authorize outpatient physical therapy. I also requested..." His voice cracked. "I also requested a full course of Wolfsbane potion, to be administered in the ward beginning exactly one week before the June full moon." 

Charles' shoulders sagged, and he swallowed thickly, his mouth feeling as dry as sand. He pulled the watch from his pocket and turned it over in his palm, a nervous habit his wife would later scold him for. But he needed to do something as the Wizengamot members spoke amongst themselves, and spinning his watch felt like a comforting meditation. 

He had done nothing wrong. He had executed his duties as a Healer faithfully and stated the facts of Ms. Granger’s case to the court. His conscience should have been clear. 

Charles kept his head down but let his eyes slip across the courtroom. 

Hermione sat chained to her chair, so still that she might have been petrified. Her brown eyes looked dead, glassy and dull. Some cruel Azkaban guard had pulled her hair back, exposing the bright pink scars that tracked across her cheek and neck and mercifully disappeared under her overlarge grey robes. They were painful to look at; he could not imagine how much worse it would be to bear them. 

Tears filled his eyes, and he looked away, his palms slick around his pocket watch. 

Thirty years ago, he had sworn an oath to do no harm. 

Today, he had broken it. 

*

"As a Potioneer for St. Mungo's, my responsibility is to provide the Healing staff with whatever potion they might need. Common potions — Skelegrow, pain relievers, fever reducers — are always stocked. Wolfsbane is considered a specialty potion and, because of its short shelf life and strict dosing schedule, is made on request only.” 

Lucie Miere paused for a breath. In the silence, she heard the Court Scribe’s quill continue to scratch against the parchment. She was talking too quickly; she knew she would. Lu tucked a lock of dark blonde hair behind her ear and tried for a slower pace. 

"One batch of Wolfsbane will dose one patient for the required seven days. The standard brew time is two days, meaning that the brew must begin nine days before the expected transformation for it to be effective. Charles’ request for Wolfsbane came through on June 1, and I began that night, nine days in advance of the full moon on June 10, per the hospital's standard operating procedures. I completed it in time, and the potion emitted a faint, blue smoke, which is the key indicator of a successful brew. St. Mungo’s requested an independent review of my notes by Alchemy, Inc., who concluded that my brew met the International Success Standards set by the potion's inventor, Damocles Belby.” 

Lu looked at her hands, clenched into tight fists, and felt her stomach churn. She supposed it should be a relief, the absence of responsibility. She had been at St. Mungo's for seven years and was poised to become Head Potioneer once her mentor retired. A misbrew of this magnitude would have been not only career killing, but also personally devastating. In all her time at the hospital, not once had her notes been incorrect or her potions ineffective. 

But Lu was more than an ambitious, if occasionally selfish, Potioneer. She had chosen to work for St. Mungo's because she wanted to make a difference. She cared, and even though she knew that she carried no guilt for what happened on June 10, she still felt it, sitting on her chest like an old, iron cauldron. 

Her wife had asked, rhetorically, and in a somewhat misguided attempt at consolation, what the odds were that she would get _this_ potion wrong when she had gotten so many others right and the likelihood that three reviews — from herself, St. Mungo's, and Alchemy, Inc. — had all missed the error. 

Lu wished she hadn’t. 

"Immunity to the Wolfsbane potion occurs in less than one percent of patients infected with the lycanthropy virus,” she stated, almost too quietly for the Scribe to hear. "I propose that Ms. Granger is a member of that population.” 

Her stomach roiled again. As soon as her testimony was complete, she was going to find the nearest loo and vomit. 

*

Emmeline Potts slowly drowned in gentle, condescending looks, suffocating under the Wizengamot’s pity. She rested a hand on her chest, winding her handkerchief between her fingers. The fabric was thin, its yellow and purple trim faded and frayed, but she held it against her heart as if it were a charm. As if it could supply the oxygen that had been stolen from her. 

Her son had given her oxygen. Oxygen and a heartbeat and a purpose, a reason to want more than the small, inconsequential existence she had carved for herself at the poor edges of wizarding society. At nine years old, her bright little boy, with his light brown hair, clear blue eyes, and scraped knees, had made her world — the whole world — a better place. He had filled her days with joy and worry in equal measures, but she wouldn’t have traded him for a lifetime of peace and prosperity. She had loved her son with every measure of her soul and would have given her life for his without a moment of hesitation. 

But she had never been given that choice, and the injustice of it filled her with rage. 

"Chip was a child,” Emmeline spat, her testimony coming to its painful close. “A _child_. He was in St. Mungo’s because of a reaction to a Crup bite, and he was going to be fine.” 

She turned to address her son’s killer. Merlin willing, it was the only time she ever would. 

"But you _murdered_ him." 

She let the truth hang, not for dramatic benefit, but so that she didn’t fly apart. So that her next words weren’t a curse that would leave the entire courtroom writhing in the same agony she felt. 

"You murdered him, and I hope you feel that pain every day for the rest of your gods' forsaken life.” 

And though she felt no happiness, there was a sweeping sensation of righteousness as the murderess sank into herself, looking as broken as Emmeline felt. 

*

Four hours of witness testimony. Three hours of discussion with his fellow Wizengamot members. Two minutes until Kingsley changed one life forever. 

Hermione’s life should have been just beginning. The war was over, and this talented witch, this indomitable woman he respected and admired, had been primed for meteoric success. Her potential for greatness would have been limited only by the structures into which she chose to work. She was the direction in which the world was turning and the leader that new world would need. She had survived and endured more than any teenager should have, and she had been brought low by twin strokes of misfortune. 

The unfairness of it picked at him like a vulture at a carcass. What had they fought and died for if the best of them couldn’t have a life worth living afterwards? 

His knees creaked as he stood. The courtroom’s baseline murmur quieted. 

"I want to thank the Wizengamot and each of our witnesses for their time today," Kingsley said, letting his eyes sweep across the courtroom. "I value your participation in our judicial process, as imperfect as it may be. 

"On the night of May 11, Ms. Granger went to Cardiff to finish a fight that should never have been hers. One month later, on the night of June 10, Ms. Granger once again reminded us all of the painful, terrible repercussions of war. What happened at St. Mungo's was a tragedy of the highest order, and the fallout has touched every corner of our community. Together, we grieve for the lives lost and offer what little comfort we can to the families and friends of the deceased. Together, we will find a way forward, making our community stronger and safer through research and prevention. And together, we shall see justice done.” 

He paused, and the silence held the weight of a guillotine ready to fall. 

"Hermione Jean Granger, you have pled guilty to twenty-three charges of involuntary manslaughter. The Wizengamot accepts your plea and finds you guilty.” 

A flurry of whispers erupted at the pronouncement, though their judgment could not have been a surprise. Hermione’s transformation into a werewolf and the ensuing rampage through the hospital had been on the _Daily Prophet_ ’s front page for weeks. The number of witnesses meant that, eventually, an accurate accounting of the events had appeared amongst the misinformation and exaggerations. 

He cleared his throat, and the whispers faded. 

"The Wizengamot believes your regret is sincere. We also believe that, based on your condition and the testimony given today, you remain an exceptional danger to society. As the governing body of the magical community, the Wizengamot is responsible for the safety and well-being of our citizens. We cannot put them at risk. Therefore, I, Kingsley Tiberius Shacklebolt, as Minister for Magic and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, sentence you to life in exile. I will meet with your advocate to discuss terms.” 

*

A wave of motion rocked through the chamber as the attendees rose to their feet. Hermione felt a similar swell and longed to be swept away with it, like detritus making its way out to sea. But the cold irons on her wrists and ankles grounded her to reality. 

Kingsley’s broad palm descended onto her shoulder and gave what should have been a comforting squeeze. She looked up at him, trying to focus, but everything was blurred, as if she were submerged and trying to see up through the water. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he rumbled. “I did the best I could, but…” 

She forced a grimace and hoped it looked like a smile. 

“I understand, Kingsley. I appreciate everything you’ve done.” 

He frowned and looked as though he were about to speak. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder one last time and left her to the mercy of the Ministry guards. She let her expression drop and felt a profound relief at not having to pretend for him. 

Soon, she wouldn’t have to pretend at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_15 Years Later_ … 

By all accounts, Draco Malfoy should have been alone. The summer holiday had just started, meaning his students were gone, filling their free time at home much like they had at school: by practicing Quidditch, getting into mischief with ne’er-do-well friends, and studiously ignoring whatever Potions homework he'd assigned until the very last minute. 

Most of the professors had gone, too, but there were always some who lingered, either finishing their last-minute grading or, like him, pursuing their own academic interests without awkward questions from nosey students about the appearance of burns, partial transformations, or odd swellings. 

And then there were _some_ professors who, Draco believed, hung around the castle to make his life difficult. Pansy Parkinson – Charms professor, occasional ally, and regular thorn in his side – was premiere in that group. Draco heard her footsteps, and it could only be hers, as no other professor had endurance enough to wear even a modest heel around the castle, fall into pace behind him. 

He cursed below his breath. The path from the library to the Great Hall was unfortunately bereft of the typical array of false walls and hidden passages. Lacking a better option, he sped up, prompting a huff of incredulous laughter. 

"Really, Draco? When has ignoring me ever ended well for you?” 

"Never,” he admitted, spinning on his heel, “but only because you never give me the chance to do it properly.” 

She caught up and looped her arm through his. 

"I thought you’d be in a better mood,” she said, her voice full of a low, sarcastic humor. “No students for three months, empty library, quiet corridors...” 

"Not quiet enough.” 

"And it’s your _birthday_.” 

"As you’ve been keen to remind me all week,” he groused. 

She smirked. “One year closer to 35.” 

"Isn’t your birthday coming up soon?” 

Pansy’s smirk took on a hard edge, and her fingers tightened upon his biceps, an uncomfortable prickle building beneath them. 

"Did I tell you that Magical Law Enforcement engaged my services over the summer?” she asked in an overly conversational tone as the prickle on his arm intensified into a sting. “They want me to develop a new hex that would send a crippling bolt of electricity through the body, but I haven’t quite been able to control the voltage.” 

Draco had known Pansy long enough to recognize a bluff; this was not one of those times. 

He cleared his throat. “I thought you vowed not to rise until noon over the summer hols.” 

Her grip loosened, fingers uncurling to rest at the crook of his elbow, and she continued as if nothing were amiss. “I did, and I intend to adhere to that promise, but I needed to give you your birthday present.” 

He arched an eyebrow. Their relationship had never been one of the present-exchanging variety. Favors, however… 

He tugged her to a stop. “What do you want?” 

"To be determined, but it’ll be big.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My mother invited me to tea the other week, and she told _me_ that your parents told _her_ that _you’re_ still clinging to your independence despite the existence of an eligible young lady who’s shown an interest.” 

A cold prickle that had nothing to do with Pansy’s magical ability crawled up his spine like a venomous insect. “And what’s my gift?” 

Pansy’s brown eyes sparkled, and her smirk returned. “Advanced warning.” 

"Damn it, Pansy.” Draco flung her arm away and stalked forward, desperate to put some distance between them. 

"She asked if she could visit for the summer,” Pansy said with mock innocence, flipping her short hair. “Who am I to refuse a friend?” 

Draco whirled on her. “How much time do I have?” 

"About two minutes. I was just walking to the Great Hall to meet her.” 

Draco swore. At that moment, he could’ve turned Pansy into a toadstool and not felt any remorse. 

"You couldn’t have met her anywhere else?” 

"I’m not a saint, Draco. It amuses me to see you squirm.” 

"I wish you had knocked me out.” 

"You’re being dramatic.” 

"I’m _not_. And this hardly qualifies you for a favor.” 

"Would you have preferred to meet her on your own, with no notice at all?” 

Draco scowled, and Pansy took his arm, tugging him back into motion. 

Waiting for them in the Great Hall, with several expensive, dragon-skin valises piled at her feet, was a slim woman with perfectly curled blonde hair and fine features. She wore a dress the same ice-blue shade as her eyes and stood on thin heels with such poise that one could assume that she’d been trained in the art. 

"Astoria!” Pansy shouted with genuine enthusiasm. She dropped Draco’s arm and traipsed down the remaining stairs to greet her friend. 

Astoria Greengrass was the veritable gold standard of pureblood breeding and the embodiment of Slytherin cunning. She had climbed the social and professional ladders of wizarding society without a single person realizing he or she was being stepped upon, and connecting with government officials, Healers, and celebrities along the way. Many considered her to be the best social columnist the _Daily Prophet_ had employed since Rita Skeeter. 

Having achieved social and professional success, Astoria had shifted her relentless focus to her personal life, aiming at Draco’s perpetual bachelorhood. Though this attention had started only a few months prior, the match apparently had the support of three sets of parents. 

As such, he hung back, unwilling to make the mistake of underestimating her. 

"Come say hello, Draco,” Pansy said. 

"Perhaps he’s frightened,” Astoria teased, flicking her fingers at him in a pantomime wave. “I promise not to bite, dear.” 

Seeing no graceful exit, Draco assumed a benign smile and descended the stairs. She met him halfway across the landing, moving with the slow, deliberate stride of a predator, taking care to emphasize the sway of her hips. 

"It’s wonderful to see you, Draco.” Despite her shoes, she had to stand on tiptoes to kiss each of his cheeks. Her lips lingered against his skin, and her voice was a low purr. “All these books — is this how you plan to spend your summer? Locked away in your dungeons, hunched over a cauldron?” 

"Yes, actually.” 

She rolled her eyes and sent a knowing smile over her shoulder. “You were right, Pansy. He’s becoming more like Snape every year, but without the benefit of long-lost love to soften him.” She turned back to Draco with a sultry expression and trailed a finger down his arm. “But perhaps we can remedy that.” 

"A- _hem_.” 

Draco looked past Astoria’s parted lips to the Great Hall’s entrance, meeting the annoyed gaze of Ginny Weasley-Potter. Astoria’s hair brushed his chin as she, too, turned to look at her co-worker. 

"Weasley,” Astoria said, her tone somehow both frigid and polite. 

"Greengrass.” 

The two women exchanged a look that could only be cultivated from mutual disrespect that, due to their professional obligations to the _Daily Prophet_ , could never be overtly expressed. 

Ginny’s gaze flicked from Astoria’s tight grimace to Pansy’s amused grin, then settled back onto Draco. Her brown eyes narrowed, still deciphering the situation. 

"Can we help you?” Astoria prompted. 

Ginny ignored Astoria’s condescension. “I know I’m a little early for our meeting,” she said to Draco after a moment’s pause, “but it's urgent.” 

He picked up on the thread of deception, grasping any excuse to escape Astoria’s manicured talons. 

"Not at all.” He gestured in the general direction of the dungeons. “My office is right this way.” 

*

Draco dropped into the worn chair behind his desk, running his hand through his hair. “Thanks for that.” 

Ginny sat across from him and smoothed her skirt. “It looked like you needed it,” she replied with a shrug. 

"Tea?” 

"No, thank you. I don’t intend to stay long.” 

"Pity,” he grumbled. 

Ginny gave him a tight smile. “I need your help, Malfoy.” 

She let the request hang for a moment, waiting for Draco's dismissal. And he was tempted to, though more out of instinct than the desire to be petulant. He hadn’t seen Ginny since his appeal trial over a decade ago. At her husband’s request, she had testified in support of his early release from Azkaban. The court had agreed, and the change in circumstance had allowed him to pursue his education and build a life for himself from the ashes Lord Voldemort had left. 

Considering that, and what she had done for him this morning, now seemed like the right time to thank her. 

"Go on.” 

"It’s Hermione.” 

Draco leaned forward, brows raised in surprise. “I haven’t heard her name in years.” 

"You know what happened to her?” 

"Doesn’t everyone?” 

Another shrug. “There were a lot of lies back then, and people believed the rumor mill over the press. Some still do,” she added sourly. “Anyway, I’ve written to her almost every week since her exile. She used to write back, but over the past few months, her letters have been shorter and less detailed. It’s like she’s cutting herself off from us or trying to say goodbye. I’m worried.” 

Draco frowned. Depression wasn’t uncommon in cases of forced isolation. He was surprised Hermione had lasted five years without meaningful human contact, never mind fifteen. 

"Have you talked to Shacklebolt?” 

"I’ve tried,” Ginny said with a helpless gesture, “but he’s limited by the law. The only people allowed to visit her are Healers. They can’t tell me anything, of course, but Kingsley assured me that they would intervene if they thought she was a danger to herself. But she must have passed whatever assessment they performed, because they’re not doing anything to help her.” 

"What do you expect me to do?” 

"You’re a Healer,” she said. 

Draco took a deep breath as he understood her reasoning. “I trained as a Healer as part of my Potions Mastery, but only on antidotes and dosing. I can’t provide the kind of Healing you think Granger needs.” 

"Of course you can’t,” Ginny said with a dismissive wave. “After fifteen years of solitude, you wouldn't be the first person she'd want to _see_ , much less _confide in_. Your potions, on the other hand? To someone who turns into something she’s not once a month, I can’t imagine a more welcome sight than a respected Hogwarts professor who was mentored by one of the school’s greatest minds.” 

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Laying it on rather thick, aren’t you?” 

"No, I’m not. I’ve read some of your research, and your work is cited all the time. One Potioneering magazine called you _the greatest brewer since Damocles Belby_.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Belby is a hack who got lucky,” he snarked. 

Ginny grinned. “Maybe you could, too.” 

Draco glared. “Wolfsbane is not an easy potion to brew. Inventing an alternate could take —” 

"Months, I know.” 

"Years,” he corrected. 

"But you wouldn’t be starting from blank parchment, would you? Surely there’s something in one of Snape’s old notebooks about Wolfsbane.” 

Draco crossed his arms; there was. Ginny interpreted his silence, correctly, as confirmation. 

"You have the knowledge, the time, the foundation upon which to work, the ability to slide through the Ministry’s loophole,” she counted off on her fingers. “All you need are the correct Ministry permits, which Harry will take care of.” 

"Does he know that?” 

"Not yet.” 

Draco felt a swell of respect for the tenacious witch; if she weren’t a Weasley, she might have done well in Slytherin. 

"I need to think about it,” he said. Ginny’s lips pursed, and he cut her off before she could argue. “You’re asking me to sacrifice three months of my personal time to research an antidote that may not exist on an island where I won’t be welcomed. You can give me a few days, at least.” 

"Fine.” Ginny rose to her feet. “But the next full moon is June 23, and Harry will need time to push the permits through.” 

“A few days,” he repeated, seeing her to the door. “I'll let you know." 

*

Draco walked the castle slowly, considering Ginny’s proposition. 

Snape had at least one encouraging theory on an alternate treatment for the lycanthropy virus. His mentor had never pursued it, but Draco had no such qualms. Not anymore, at least. He had reformed his indoctrinated distaste toward Muggle-borns and so-called half-breeds once there was no longer a homicidal Dark wizard watching his every move. The additional animosity he had felt toward Hermione in particular – a product of her intelligence and his insecurity – had faded with time and maturity. 

Personally, he had no reason not to help her. Professionally, the decision was not so simple. 

A great deal remained unknown regarding how the lycanthropy virus and the Wolfsbane potion interacted. If Snape’s theory yielded no results, Draco would be starting with an empty cauldron. Finding an alternate treatment could be his life’s work, and he might never even get close. 

A successful brew, however, would be a discovery on par with Belby’s original, particularly if his treatment prevented the transformation altogether. Draco’s name would be added to textbooks, and in a much more pleasant context than it currently occupied. And there were the Galleons to consider. The lycanthrope population who were immune to Wolfsbane was tiny – Hermione was the only one Draco knew of – but there was a chance to treat the _entire_ infected population if he could create a potion that worked for both segments, was simpler to brew than traditional Wolfsbane, and required fewer doses to achieve the desired therapeutic effect. The licensing fees alone would pay for any personal investment. Or, he could keep the potion proprietary and go into business for himself as the world’s foremost treatment supplier. 

The idea took root and began to sprout. 

Hogwarts had never been his end-point. He did not want to teach here until he died, dusty, hunched, and slightly poisoned from his work. Already, he felt stuck in the cyclical tedium of the school year, the petty problems of children and the knowledge that few students understood or cared about his art compounding his restlessness. 

Draco wanted more, and Hermione could be his avenue to finding it. 

He stopped at his chamber’s threshold, struck by the partially opened door and the hint of candlelight from within. He withdrew his wand, nudging the door wider with his foot. 

Astoria lounged on his sofa wearing nothing but white, lacy lingerie. She had arranged herself precisely, her hair cascading over her shoulder. Her petite waist flared into modest hips, and she looked up at him under half-lidded eyes, her lips pouted in a seductive moue. 

She made a pretty portrait, but it was out of place for a Wednesday morning. And even if he were interested, the studied stiffness of her body conveyed no sensuality. Her ploy was an engineered appeal to his sex’s lowest common denominator. 

If he had been ten years younger, it might have worked. 

As it was, Draco sighed and closed the door on Astoria’s indignant shriek. He wondered if Potter could submit those permits today.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

A storm approached. 

Hermione felt it in her chilled skin and the taste of freshwater humidity, which hung heavy in the air. The quickening wind carried the tingling smell of ozone, and the ocean, rarely calm, grew more agitated, the waves crashing upon the island’s rocky cliff sides in an asynchronous cadence. Even the raucous seabird colonies were silent, roosting in preparation for the incoming squall. 

She closed her eyes, let go of the gallery deck’s safety rail, and inhaled. The metal grating beneath her bare feet had warmed so that her body barely registered its presence. It was almost like floating. Or falling. 

Thunder rumbled in the far distance, carried over the water like a warning. It would be a bad storm, then, with lightning and high winds. An insane part of her wanted to weather the storm unsheltered on the barren surface of Barra Head Island, at the tip farthest from the lighthouse. At just over five feet, she would be the tallest figure in not even a mile. The constant Atlantic winds had scoured the landscape of trees, exposing low humps of bone-white boulders lurking like unerupted teeth beneath the tough grass. She wanted to stand amongst those stones with her arms outstretched and her chin raised, stuck in place while the world moved in a frenzy around her. 

She wouldn’t, of course. Just like she hadn’t last time, or the innumerable times before that. Even the thought was dangerous and irresponsible, but regardless of how often she told herself those truths, the temptation remained, growing like a tumor, the reasons _for_ slowly supplanting the reasons _against_ as her exile crawled forward. 

The only way her sentence could end was through death. Sometimes, it seemed pointless to wait for it, especially when the only world she now knew provided regular opportunity for an early release. 

She opened her eyes as the seabirds took flight, squawking in surprise and displeasure. A man with platinum hair and a large rucksack pulled a rickety rowboat onto shore. He tipped it upside down and stored it past the waterline, then squinted at the steep trail leading up to the mainland. Readjusting his rucksack, he began the hike. She watched him slip once, catch himself on his hands, shake his head ruefully. 

Hermione backed away from the gallery’s edge. The lantern pane creaked as her back pressed against it. 

When was her last hallucination? She tried to remember, but an overabundance of time made it increasingly difficult to track. She remembered the vision itself well enough, though. She had been watching Harry in her mirror, and he had stepped out of it. Had pressed his foot against a pane of glass no longer than her forearm and was in her bedroom, standing before her, looking real and nonplussed. Like the journey had been no more extraordinary than walking through an open door. 

She had followed him around the island for two days. He never spoke, never looked at her, never tried to touch her. Just stepped along the path she had worn in grass that may have withstood the wind but couldn’t survive the friction of one hundred thousand footsteps. And then, on the third morning, after Hermione’s body had collapsed in its need for sleep and sustenance, he was gone. 

Hermione turned her palms up and stared at her skin. Yellow-gold paint had flecked from the lighthouse’s railing and stuck in tiny specks to the pads of her fingers. When she rubbed them together, the paint crumbled. It seemed real. 

She looked back down at the inlet, but the man, if he had been there at all, had disappeared behind the cliffs. Her focus had likewise vanished, the subtle shifts of weather no longer holding her interest. She descended the lighthouse’s narrow, curving staircase, took two steps toward the residence, and stopped. 

Draco Malfoy stood before her, jaw slack. Wide eyes, the same grey shade as the clouds, flicked over her, lingering on her exposed arm, neck, and cheek. He stared unabashedly, cataloguing every ridge and valley of her disfigurement, and there was no crueler reminder of her stolen vanity than his disgust. 

She lifted her chin, faking defiance though pain arced through her chest. What else could she expect from the ghost of a Malfoy? 

Another rumble of thunder broke the tension, and Draco’s eyes snapped to hers. He cleared his throat, dropped his pack, and stepped toward her, palm outstretched. 

“Granger.” 

She glared at him, refusing to be undone by a phantom. “This isn’t real.” 

Draco dropped his arm, his neutral expression faltering. “Pardon?” 

"You’re not here.” 

"I am here,” he enunciated carefully. 

" _No_ ,” she insisted, “because I only see a real person once per year in December, and it’s not December, so you’re not a real person. You’re a hallucination and an unwelcome one, at that.” 

"Granger.” He sounded impatient; it was very convincing. “Let’s try to be rational about this.” 

"Go away.” 

He sighed and rubbed the back of his head, looking at her with a mixture of pity and amusement. Something in her snapped. 

"Fine!” She began marching toward him. 

Draco planted his feet and crossed his arms. “I’m not moving.” 

"You don’t have to.” 

"Merlin’s pants…” 

They collided. 

Draco exhaled a grunt, and Hermione stumbled backwards. He steadied her with long-fingered hands, dexterous and pale, scarred in places from his 33 years. Warm hands. Solid. Coursing with blood, driven by a beating heart. 

Adrenaline spiked through her, sending every nerve firing, and she wrenched herself away, chest heaving but somehow paralyzed, unable to process this aberration from the norm. This _person_ , on the island, with her. 

His brow furrowed in worry. “Did Ginny not write you?” 

"You can’t be here.” 

"She said she’d write.” 

"You need to leave.” 

"Granger, listen.” 

He approached her slowly, palms open, as if she were feral. And maybe she was. Her mind spun, turning over the reality of his presence without making any new conclusions, and it made her feel desperate. Reckless. 

"I know this must be a surprise." She barked a too-loud laugh at the understatement. “But if you give me a moment to explain —” 

"Leave!” 

Her shout silenced him, stopped him, and set his stubborn expression. 

"I am not going to leave. I’m here to help you, Granger. I’m here to _cure_ you.” 

_Cure_. 

The word struck her like a blow, driving the breath out of her. The impossibility of it – of everything about him – finally exceeded her capacity to process it, and the decision between fight or flight became clear. 

Hermione stumbled past him and slammed the residence’s door behind her, shutting him out. 

*

For hours, Hermione walked the residence, circuiting the ground floor, climbing the stairs, pacing the first-floor hallway, descending the stairs, and starting over again. At any moment, she expected Draco to join her. There were no locks in her prison, after all. Not one. Surely, they must have told him that. 

The sky grew dark, and on her eleventh lap, she noticed an envelope on the kitchen counter, addressed to her in familiar, hurried script. 

_Dear Hermione,_

_You’ve brought this upon yourself. Maybe my Howler was too subtle, but I thought I'd made it clear that, if I didn’t receive a letter within a week, I would take extreme action. Though I wasn’t sure what that action would be when I threatened it, I feel that convincing Hogwarts’ Potions Master to spend his summer hols with you is appropriately extreme._

_I know you’re already thinking of how to get rid of him, but it won’t be through a legal loophole. Harry submitted the permit, Kingsley signed it, and that snake Daphne (Greengrass — you remember her, I’m sure) down in Legal made sure it was ironclad. You’re welcome to appeal to his emotions, but it would have to outweigh my appeal to his ego. In my opinion, the Cannons have a better shot at this year’s World Cup (a point I’m sure Ron would argue, even if it did happen to coincide with the defense of one of Malfoy’s few virtues)._

_Besides, I think he has other reasons to stay away from Hogwarts. Astoria (the other Greengrass — they’re everywhere!) was all over him in the Great Hall when I showed up, and Pansy was watching with that smug smile of hers. How she could be teaching a subject called_ Charms _is beyond my comprehension._

_The children are doing great. Charlie offered to take them on for two weeks in Romania to live at the commune and learn about dragons. I’ve let James and Albus go on the condition of constant supervision and daily Floo calls, but Lily is a bit young yet. She’s plenty entertained by Ron and George, though, so don’t pity her too much. She’ll have her share of adventures, and maybe I want her to be my little girl for another year or two._

_Everyone sends their love, Harry especially. Though I’m not sure how much he believes in Malfoy, he believes in Snape. Hopefully he was able to teach the ferret something useful before he died._

_Love always,_

_Ginny_

_P.S. - WRITE ME BACK._

Hermione carried Ginny’s letter with her to the living room, parting the curtains with a finger. A flash of lightning revealed a makeshift tent, and the corresponding thunderclap brought a downpour. 

Draco wasn’t a hallucination; he was revenge for poor correspondence. And he was misplaced hope. If there were a non-Wolfsbane treatment, it would’ve been discovered already and by a greater mind than Malfoy’s, regardless of posthumous aid from Snape. The sooner he – and Ginny, Harry, Ron, and anyone else unlucky enough to remember her – realized that, the better off she’d be. The better off they’d all be. 

A gust of wind rattled the windows, but through the noise, Hermione heard a sharp _snap_. The next lightning flash showed that a corner of Draco’s tent had come unmoored. He emerged a moment later, dressed only in galoshes and a loosely belted robe. The light from his wand cast odd shadows in the rain, and when he raised it high, the sleeve of his robe fell back to reveal his Dark Mark, a stark black brand against the pale skin of his forearm. Seeing it sent a chill down her spine. 

He waved and prodded at the tent, then staggered forward as he was struck from behind. He whipped around, expression serious and scared, and lurched again as a second unseen projectile struck his chest. 

Another _snap_ , another corner unmoored. Much longer and he would lose his tent to the storm. 

The rain drenched her within seconds, plastering her hair to her head and her shirt to her arms and breasts. She laid a hand on Draco’s arm and jumped back when he lashed out, narrowly avoiding the jet of sparks that shot from his wand. 

"Come on!” she shouted. 

Draco’s reply was stolen by the wind. She pointed to him, the tent, and then the residence. He nodded once, and together, they wrangled the flapping canvas through the back door. Draco forced the door closed, then leaned against it. His sodden robe fell open, revealing a lean chest, a taut abdomen, and a dark pair of clinging shorts. 

Hermione looked away quickly; Draco didn’t seem to notice. 

"Thanks for that,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair and making it stand on end. “I thought you were going to make me stay out there all night.” 

She frowned; that had been the plan. 

"Something hit me, when I was out there.” 

"Probably a fish,” she said after it was clear he wasn’t going to finish his question. “When the small ones swim too close to the surface, the storm can pick them up.” 

He shuddered in mild disgust. “Couldn’t bother you for a towel, could I?” 

She suppressed a sigh and went upstairs to the linen closet. When she returned with a stack of towels, she found him in the living room, hands fanned before a crackling fire, which he'd taken the liberty of lighting. His robe hung off his shoulders and dripped water onto her floor. He took two towels from the stack, wrapping one around his waist before shrugging out of the robe and using the other to pat at his chest and tousle his hair. 

She couldn’t help but watch him, this stranger from her youth. He was taller than she remembered, stronger. But it wasn’t just the physical strength she saw in the set of his shoulders and the cords of his arms. The cloak of arrogance he had worn at Hogwarts, used to inflate his own sense of belonging as much as to diminish hers, had been replaced by one of confidence. What else could have made him comfortable enough to stand shirtless in her living room? 

Draco cleared his throat, and Hermione flushed as she realized she had been staring. She dropped her eyes to the fire. 

"I got Ginny’s letter. I appreciate what you’ve sacrificed to come here —” 

"But you still want me to leave.” 

There was no point in mincing words. “Yes.” 

Draco sank into her favorite armchair and gave her a tired look, as if they had already had this discussion. 

"I’m not leaving, Granger.” 

"But —” 

He held up a hand to silence her. “Allow me. You don’t think you can be treated and, even if you could, you don’t think you deserve it. Does that about cover things?” 

Hermione clenched her jaw and crossed her arms before her chest. 

"They’re fair points. Hell, I’ve argued the latter half of it myself, albeit under different circumstances. But ultimately, they hold no potion. Do you know why?” 

He didn’t give her the chance to guess. 

"First: you are not a Potions Master. You are not a Master of _anything_ , as far as I’m aware, so of the two people on this dreary piece of rock qualified to say what is or isn’t possible, particularly regarding Potions, you rank dead last. Second: what you do or do not deserve is irrelevant to me because third: I’m not here for you. I’m here for _me_. Fourth and finally: you're a prisoner, so your opinion on this venture is irrelevant. I am authorized to be here, and you will allow me to do my work." 

His words were clipped and impatient, and his points landed hard. Hermione flinched at the careless reminder of what she could have achieved, the differences between what he had and what she had not. 

"And since we're on the subject," he said, gathering momentum, his eyes an unyielding granite, "I'd like you to know that, while I prefer to work with your consent, don’t think for a moment that I require it. You will either give me a workspace, or I will set one up wherever I please. You will either sit quietly as I draw your blood for testing, or I will render you unconscious and take it anyway. You will either swallow whatever potion I come up with, or I will force it down your throat.” 

Her blood ran cold. He was correct in that she was a prisoner; whatever control her exile had allowed extended only as the Ministry saw fit. If Draco were authorized to be here, then there was little she could do to stop it. Her body, however, was her own, and for 353 days of the year, she had authority over what happened to it. 

Her voice shook. “You don’t own me.” 

"No, the Ministry does.” 

Those four words subverted her final attempt at control, sending her reeling into the panic attack she had been fighting since his arrival. Her pulse raced as she gasped for air, and the room grew dark and misty. She staggered backwards, away from him, but he drew closer, towering over her, gripping her elbows with firm hands, forcing her down onto the sofa. His hand pressed against her neck, firm pressure guiding her head down between her knees. 

"Deep breaths, Granger," he muttered, not unkindly. "Try to count them.” 

She pressed her hands to her face hide her tears. His warm fingers traced abstract patterns on her neck. After several minutes, her breathing steadied. Draco removed his hand and allowed her to sit up. 

"I realize this is a lot to take in for one day. We can discuss it more in the morning, if you’d like.” 

Hermione thought she might sob if she tried to speak. Instead, she nodded. 

"Bedrooms are upstairs?" 

She nodded again. 

"Can you make it on your own?" 

"Yes," she croaked. 

"Good.” He stood and offered his hands. She ignored them; she'd had enough physical contact for one evening. He let them drop, an expression of hurt so brief Hermione might have imagined it flickering over his features. 

"Get some rest, then, Granger. The real work starts tomorrow.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Draco woke at sunrise, as was his habit after almost a decade of morning classes. He took a cold shower, though not by choice: the hot water either didn't work or required more than fifteen minutes to reach temperature. 

First on his agenda was an inventory. His makeshift tent, inexpertly Transfigured from his raincoat, had reached the end of its useful life. He vanished it with the dim hope that there wouldn’t be another downpour over the next three months. Thankfully, aside from a few snapped quills and a cracked vial of Acromantula venom, his ingredient kit had sustained little damage. 

He carried it to the kitchen and set it on the table as he went through Hermione's cupboards. They were well stocked with food, and the refrigerator was full, yet most of the items were dusty, as if they had been forgotten or ignored. 

Though he never would have admitted it while at Hogwarts, Draco had always thought Hermione was pretty, in a swotty, schoolgirl sort of way. Now, she was all cheekbones and chin. Though not quite unhealthy, her features had lost the pleasing fullness of good health, and that had dangerous potions implications. Fortunately, that particular condition was easily remedied. 

He felt more than heard her behind him, lurking just beyond the kitchen’s threshold. 

"Do you cook, Granger?” 

He looked over his shoulder in time to see embarrassment flicker across her face, replaced swiftly by anger. 

"I am _not_ making you breakfast.” 

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “That’s not what I asked.” 

"I fail to see how my cooking skills are at all relevant.” 

"You’re thinner than your medical records stated.” 

Her jaw clenched. “You read my medical records?” 

"As part of my preparation for coming here, yes. I based my calculations for my first brew off that number.” He frowned. “I don’t suppose you have a scale.” 

The look she gave was answer enough. 

"Take a seat, then. I’ll make us breakfast.” 

"I already ate.” 

The unnecessary falsehood shattered his attempt at patience. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve been down here since dawn.” 

She stepped back. “I’m not —” 

"Lying?” he scoffed. “Or hungry? The full moon is eleven days away, Granger." 

"Don't you think I know that?" she snapped. 

"I need to start brewing today, and since I don’t have the means to update my information or the time to requisition the Ministry for your most recent records, I’m going to use my original calculations. You’re going to receive a higher dose than you ought, which means that whatever the side effects of my brew, they will be more severe. Any weight you can put on between now and then may help to mitigate them.” He released a tense breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “So, will you _please_ take a seat so I can make you breakfast?” 

She crossed her arms and cocked her hip, looking stubborn and petulant and somehow more herself. After a pregnant pause, she broke the silence. 

"You cook?” 

*

After Draco had charmed the dishes to wash themselves, he angled his chair perpendicular to Hermione’s and unrolled his bloodletting kit. 

"Right or left?” 

Hermione rolled up her right shirtsleeve, and he cradled her arm in his right hand. He tried to ignore the warmth and texture of her skin. This was a clinical procedure. Required for his research and, therefore, impersonal. 

But as he ran his left thumb along the soft underside of her forearm to check her veins, his touch slow and deliberate, goosebumps rose along her skin. When he placed two fingers alongside her radial artery, her pulse fluttered. When he broke his silent counting to look at her, her cheeks were pink and her brown eyes focused on his hands. His own heartbeat momentarily stuttered. How long had it been since she had been touched like this, by someone who wanted more than just to gather the basic metrics of her health? 

Their eyes met, and Hermione flinched when she realized he'd been staring. She shifted in her seat and dropped her gaze to the wooden table, shaking her hair down over her cheeks and angling away from him. 

And then he realized they had something in common: Hermione was ashamed of her scars. 

Draco had mostly outgrown the self-consciousness brought on by his Dark Mark, a symbol of hatred born from ignorance and the dangerous, seductive ideology of biological superiority. It was a reminder of what he had been and who he had become, and any embarrassment he still felt came from having chosen to take the Mark. To have swallowed the tripe instead of thinking critically or examining contrary evidence, a convincing piece of which sat before him. 

He could help her. He could tell her that he understood her desire to hide and reassure her that it wasn't necessary. Not because he didn't notice her scars or because they didn't fascinate him in a horrifying, Quidditch-accident sort of way. But because he _had_ seen them. He had read the tragedy writ across her skin and felt a small measure of her pain. 

Her left arm: a mess of crosshatched cuts, ragged and desperate, where Greyback had first caught her, where she had blasted him off only to be caught again. Draco knew what it was like to feel overpowered and that, despite the resulting helplessness, it felt like a poor excuse for failure. 

Her neck: the site of Greyback’s most savage attack, a mess of pink and white weals, bumpy and punctuated by a distinctly lupine bite-mark pattern. His Mark was also a unique identifier; he could never pretend it was something other than what it was. 

Her left cheek: three parallel lines that, despite their width, had healed cleanly, but nevertheless assaulted her vanity. Draco almost wondered if Greyback’s intention was to brand her as his creation; that had been Lord Voldemort's goal. 

The temptation to comfort her came and went. He had two days to complete a complicated brew and couldn’t afford a distraction, no matter how much good it might do. 

He finished taking her pulse, picked up his wand, and held it like a quill, poised for accuracy. 

"Are you ready?” 

"Yes.” 

He traced a small series of concentric circles over her wrist. 

"They’re cold," she said on a gasp. 

"They’re sanitizing your skin. Deep breath on three. One, two…” 

He flicked his wand, opening a small cut, and turned her wrist sideways, gravity drawing the blood onto a gauze pad placed beneath. Draco held a thin capillary tube to the wound and placed the other end over a vial. 

"I only need a few of these for now. It shouldn’t take long. Are you okay?” His eyes searched her face for any sign of a faint. 

She nodded. “I thought only Healers were permitted to come here.” 

"I am a Healer.” 

"But you work at Hogwarts.” 

"St. Mungo’s isn’t the only option for Healers. Some work in the private sector or open their own practices.” Draco swapped for an empty vial. 

She furrowed her brow. “Was Snape a Healer?” 

"How do you think one becomes a Potions Master? They don’t just hand out the certificate, you know.” She rolled her eyes, and a lightness filled his chest. “I spent two years at St. Mungo’s in Potions and Plant Poisoning. I learned dosing, bloodletting, diagnosis, and research fundamentals. I passed both my Mastery exam and practicum on the first attempt.” 

"Professor Healer Draco Malfoy,” she murmured. 

Draco started the third vial. “Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?” 

"Why did you choose to teach?” 

His grin faltered. “I’m not sure I did. Snape needed an apprentice, and I had just received my Master’s robe. It seemed like the obvious choice.” And the easy one, if he were being honest with himself. 

"I thought you pursued your Master’s _because_ of Snape.” 

"No, that decision was mine.” 

The third vial finished filling. He set her arm on the table and pressed a clean linen pad against her wrist, then uncorked a vial labeled _Essence of Dittany_. 

"On three again. One —” 

He removed the pad and two drops of Dittany sizzled against her skin. She jerked her arm away and glared, running her fingers over the new, tender skin at her wrist. 

"Did they not teach you to count at St. Mungo’s?” she asked sourly. 

"My worst subject was bedside manner,” he deadpanned. 

"Imagine that.” 

He rose from his seat and began to pack up, corking the vials, vanishing the used capillary, and stowing his wand. 

Hermione looked up at him. “What did you want to do instead of teach?” 

The question made him pause, and he was unable to suppress the touch of bitterness and regret that tinged his answer. “This, I think.” 

*

Late in the evening, exactly one week before the full moon, Draco found Hermione outside. She sat on the crumbling stone wall that surrounded the lighthouse and residence, watching the sun set through the clouds. The sea glittered with the fading light, and the wind toyed with her hair. She had worn it down every day since his arrival. 

He offered her a steaming white mug. “Attempt number one.” 

She gave its contents a wary look. Traditional Wolfsbane was midnight blue; Draco’s was dark crimson. It had looked innocuous enough in the cauldron, but against the mug’s white porcelain, it reminded him of blood spilled in winter, steaming against the snow. 

"What’s in it?” 

"The base is the same. I substituted nerium for aconite.” 

"Nerium… Oleander?” 

He nodded. 

"That’s incredibly toxic.” 

"As is aconite. _Sola dosis facit venenum_.” 

" _The dose makes the poison_ ,” she translated. “Paracelsus. Snape may not have thought I was worth teaching, but I still listened,” she grumbled at Draco’s impressed look. “What makes you think nerium will work any better?” 

"Its mode of action is a little different. Though we don’t know what causes your immunity, I hope the nerium works differently enough to overcome it.” 

"I guess we’ll see.” She took the dose, set the mug on the wall, looked out toward the sunset, and then tipped backward, unconscious. 

"Shite!” 

Draco caught her by the arm and dragged her body to his chest. He stumbled and fell, wheezing as he took her dead weight. Holding her in his arms, he pressed two fingers to her neck. 

And felt nothing. 

Panicked, he shoved her off his lap, laying her flat on the damp earth. He pressed hard into her neck and moaned in relief as he felt her thready pulse. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. 

"Don’t go anywhere, Granger.” He sprinted toward the residence, dashing up the stairs and tearing through his potions kit, exhaling a victorious “Ha!” as he found what he needed. He raced back outside, skidding to a stop next to her and prying open her jaw to drop a bezoar onto her tongue. 

Then, he paused. 

A bezoar would guarantee that Hermione woke. It would also render the potion useless. 

He took her pulse again. Her heart had settled into a slow, albeit weak, rhythm, as had her breathing. He set the bezoar aside and took her hand. 

"Sorry, Granger,” he said, running his thumb over her knuckles. “But we have to try.” 

He sat with her for almost two hours seeing no movement except the increasingly steady rise and fall of her chest. Then, Hermione’s head lolled toward him. 

"Thank Merlin,” he muttered and dropped her hand to check her pulse. She swatted him away, her arm clumsy and slow. 

"Stop that,” he scolded, reapplying his fingers. 

Her eyes slit open, and she groaned. “What happened?” 

"I almost killed you,” he said with frank relief. “Your pulse dropped and you almost stopped breathing. And you fell off the wall.” 

Her brow furrowed. “I thought you tested it.” 

"I did. The results showed that the potion _definitely_ wouldn’t kill you. They didn’t indicate that it _almost_ would.” 

"Some test…” 

He chuckled and, without thinking, smoothed her hair away from her face. Her eyes closed at his touch. 

Her voice shook. “What now?” 

He removed his hand. “The potion has potential. If you’re willing, I think you should complete the dose.” 

"Won’t you just make me?” 

He frowned, stung by the innocence with which she threw his hasty threat back at him. “If the potion weren’t dangerous and you refused treatment, then yes, I would. But it _is_ dangerous. I’m not going to force you to put your life at risk.” After a pause, he added, “I’ll be with you the whole time. I'll give you a bezoar if I think you’re in real danger.” 

She looked away from him toward the sky. Eventually, she nodded, and Draco felt the weight of her trust settle onto his shoulders. It was a heavier burden than he expected. 

*

When he walked into the kitchen the next morning, Draco was surprised to find a plate of bacon on the table and Hermione at the stove, spatula in hand. 

"I thought you weren’t going to make me breakfast.” He leaned against the doorjamb and tried not to smirk. 

She startled but gave no more than an over-the-shoulder glance. 

"I wasn’t, until I learned you could only make eggs one way.” 

"There’s nothing wrong with scrambled.” 

"Not until you’ve had my egg in the basket.” 

She tipped the frying pan onto a plate and held it out to him without looking. He took it and sat, helping himself to bacon and pouring them both a glass of pumpkin juice. She cracked another egg for herself and glanced at him, then his plate. 

"It’s better hot." 

"It’s better with company,” he corrected. She turned away, blushing. “How should I interpret this? As a thank you? A cease fire?” 

She joined him at the table. “How about as a _breakfast_?” 

He arched a brow. “Could it really be so simple?” 

"Does it have to be complicated?” she asked in a huff, stabbing at her egg. “I didn’t want scrambled eggs, so I made my own, and it seemed, I don’t know, _rude_ to not prepare you a plate, too.” 

“You didn’t want to be rude,” Draco repeated, incredulous. 

"Why is that so hard to believe? It’s not like I was rotten to you in school.” 

"I seem to recall you slapping me in the face,” he said mildly. 

"I seem to recall you deserving it." 

They exchanged glares, and Draco broke first, busying himself with his bacon. They spent the rest of the breakfast in silence, and when Hermione made to clear his plate, Draco magicked them both into the sink. She gave him a blank look and left the kitchen. 

Draco watched her go, arms crossed in consternation. There was no reason for her to be so difficult about a simple thing like breakfast. Though maybe he couldn't blame her. She'd been alone for fifteen years and with him for four days. He couldn't expect her to adjust to such a dramatic change so quickly. 

He left Hermione to her wanderings and, since he had already cast a stasis charm on the nerium-based brew and she wouldn't need another dose until later, decided to explore the residence. 

It was a boxy, utilitarian structure, the ground floor a rectangular arrangement of standard living areas and the first floor a simpler design of one branching hallway. The interior was shabby, though he didn’t think that was a product of Hermione’s apathy. The wear patterns on the rugs and wood floors suggested a long history of use without repair, and the layer of dust in the storage areas and cellar were thicker than what could accumulate in a decade and a half. Faded portraits of the former lighthouse keepers and their families lined the hallways, interspersed with grimed-over landscapes of Barra Head’s subjective beauty. 

Below all the decrepitude, the residence also had a certain, forgotten charm. For every gouged bookshelf or cracked piece of furniture was glass worn smooth and hazy by the sea, painted rocks, or the odd piece of driftwood. They were scattered around the residence like reminders of fond summer memories: sad and faraway, but not without power. Taken altogether, and when bathed in the soft yellows and pinks of candlelight and sunset, Draco almost felt like he had stepped back through time or into a dream, caught in a place existing almost beyond reality, connected to it by the most tenuous of threads. 

Hermione found him in the evening, five minutes before her next dose. She drained the potion-filled mug, and Draco set it aside seconds before she fell into a dead faint. He caught her as she sagged forward and tipped her backwards against the couch, arranging her in the recovery position: on her left side, propped up by her knee, left arm extended and mouth angled down. 

He pulled the fireside chair adjacent to the sofa and pressed two fingers to her neck, his eyes losing focus as he counted her heartbeats. When she was quiet like this, and her scars were hidden, and the sadness behind her eyes was invisible, Draco could almost imagine she was the girl he'd known at Hogwarts — strong, confident, capable. 

Beautiful. 

He impulsively moved a lock of hair from her face and felt guilt sweep over him. He was not here for her. He had made that clear to her on his first night, and he had meant it. Yet it was difficult not to feel for her, a shifting battle of pity, compassion, and curiosity, the last of which typically won. He wondered if, through all her pain and loneliness, the girl he had known was still there, imprisoned by the beast she thought she was, just waiting to be set free. 

*

While Hermione may have adjusted to the snail-paced solitude of Barra Head, Draco had not, and by his fifth day, he was going spare with restless boredom. There was no more brewing needed, no research to undertake, and no more residence left to explore. So, when Hermione rose from the table after breakfast (he'd made pancakes, the only other bachelor-proof morning recipe he felt confident enough to share), he joined her. 

She looked askance. "Yes?" 

"I didn't intend to ask permission, but it's nice to know you approve." 

"Malfoy —" 

"Show me how you fill your days, Granger. For the love of Merlin, show me _anything_ except the inside of a book or the contents of the cellar." 

Her lips thinned, annoyed, but she pulled on her sweater and led him outside. They started on the worn dirt path that circuited the island. 

"Has this always been here?" 

She hesitated. "Yes." 

He narrowed his eyes. "How many laps do you do per day?" 

"I don't keep track." 

"Do you ever walk the opposite way?" 

"Yes, but there usually isn't this much _conversation_." 

"I have been wondering about that. You haven't asked me anything about life outside of Barra Head." 

"I get the _Daily Prophet_." 

"Weasley came to see me, you know. Ginny," he clarified, at her skeptical look. 

"She's Weasley-Potter now." 

"You're not the least bit curious about our conversation?" 

She shook her head, and he stopped in his tracks. 

"Hermione Granger, the biggest know-it-all to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts, isn't _curious_?" 

She didn't wait for him. "I was never a gossip. Besides, curiosity is pointless. It won't change anything." 

He jogged a bit to catch up. "Curiosity can change _everything_. If I find a treatment —" 

" _If_." 

"— You could be let go. Reintegrated into society." 

They reached the easternmost tip of the island, and Hermione strode off the path to stand at the edge of the bluff. 

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, barely audible, then leaned off the edge. 

Draco let out a wordless cry and lunged, fingers clutching at the back of her shirt. He missed, and she fell forward. 

She stopped at a shallow angle, palms pressed against the air, looking down at the ocean. The tips of her toes still touched land, scraping at cliff's edge. 

"What the —" he gasped. 

"The wards. They won't let me leave." 

Draco edged nearer to the bluff. "How did you find out about these?" 

She gave him a knowing look, and he flushed. 

"It was my first year here," she said, defensive. "I was alone and frightened and sad." 

"Granger, that's not —" 

"Spend fifteen years alone and then tell me how you _understand what I'm going through_." 

He tugged her back onto the island; she didn't resist. 

"I don't understand, and I won't pretend like I do," he admitted. "But I want to, if you'll let me." 

She met his eyes and looked remarkably steady. "Be my guest." 

It sounded more like a challenge than an invitation. 

*

They fell into an uncomfortable routine, breakfasting together, walking the island until lunch, and then splitting up until dinner, after which it was usually time for Hermione's dose. 

Despite the time spent together, she remained inscrutable. She hardly spoke more than a few sentences in a row, and what she did say was caged in sarcasm or uncharacteristic aggression, which he reflexively met, barb for barb. 

By the eve of the full moon, Draco's patience had waned. He nodded at the mug. 

"Well?” 

Hermione chewed her lip, fidgety. “I don’t think it’s going to work.” 

"We’ve discussed this,” he said. And they had. For two days. “Symptoms of the transformation persist for patients who dose with regular Wolfsbane. You may feel them, but it doesn't mean the change will occur.” 

"You’re not _listening_ ,” she snapped. “I can hear and smell everything, I’m losing my color vision, and my bones hurt. I want to scream at you for being so obtuse.” 

"That last one doesn’t seem so unusual.” 

She snarled, and he had to admit that her temper had been on a hair-trigger over the past few days. 

"I’m going to take the final dose, but you need to leave the island. If I’m right and your potion doesn’t work, you can’t be here.” 

"I can handle myself." 

"We can’t take that chance.” 

" _I_ can’t, you mean." 

"No, _we_. Do you think I want to hurt you? Turn you into a monster? Kill you? My transformation could hurt us _both_ , and I can’t…” She looked away from him. “I’ve ended so many lives. I don’t want to ruin yours, too.” 

"Fine,” he said after a moment of consideration. “I’ll make sure you’re okay, then I’ll spend the night on the mainland.” 

Her nostrils flared, as if scenting his deception. He tried to look convincing as she narrowed her eyes. “Do you promise?” 

"Have I lied to you yet?” 

" _Malfoy_.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Take the potion, Granger. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

*

Draco cast a warming charm on his sweater and leaned against the gallery deck’s railing, facing the southeast. He watched the yellow-white moon begin its climb, and for a moment, as it hung suspended above the horizon, Draco felt a moment of satisfied pride: the potion had worked. 

Then, he heard a scream, high-pitched and sharp with agony, and a terrible ripping punctuated by several sharp cracks. He leapt to his feet, pride washed away by terror. 

The residence door flew from its hinges with a crash, scraps and splinters of oak flying before the hulking form of a monstrous beast. Its unnaturally long limbs were coated with thick, chestnut-colored fur and ended in curved, shining claws. It had a powerful frame, muscles rippling across its shoulders and thighs as it stepped into the moonlight. Its hideous, humanoid face was an unnatural amalgamation of Hermione’s delicate features and those of a snarling wolf, with slanting eyes, short, pointed ears, and a snout lined top and bottom with bone-white fangs designed for tearing. 

A chill swept through him as the creature threw back its head and howled, a mournful, piteous cry that struck Draco into stillness. 

Then the beast turned its gaze to him, its amber eyes brimming with hate. They moved at the same time, the werewolf lunging toward the lighthouse and Draco tearing open the gallery door to sprint down the narrow stairs. 

" _Colloportus_!” He lashed his wand at the lighthouse’s rickety wooden door. 

It glowed orange, then shuddered as the beast slammed into it. The werewolf roared in fury and rammed the door again, and it began to buckle, splintering at the jamb. Draco dashed back up the stairs, heart pounding, trailing wards to confuse, blind, stun, and maim on every step. He knew they were useless. Even if werewolves were susceptible to magic, nothing could stop a predator with the scent of prey in its nose. 

The door gave, and the first ward exploded with a concussive _bang_ that sent Draco staggering up the last few stairs. The beast howled in rage. The second ward triggered with a low hiss, the third with a train-like roar, the fourth with a shrill explosion, and Draco could only stand with his back against the gallery railing, wand held at the ready, as each new burst of sound and flash of light signaled his end. 

The werewolf breached the gallery’s threshold, singed, smoking faintly, smelling of burnt hair and blood, eyes narrowed and lips pulled back from its slavering maw. The muscles in its shoulders and haunches bunched, and with a bellow, it leapt. 

Draco raised his wand to his temple and transformed into a white ferret. 

The beast sailed overhead, its eyes frantically trying to track its prey, and Draco skittered underneath, dodging a rear paw the length of his body. The entire earth seemed to shake as the werewolf landed, the metal rail snapping under the impact. A whoosh of air ruffled the fur of his back, and Draco knew he had narrowly escaped evisceration. 

His paws slipped over the blood-covered stone, sending him tumbling down the stairs. He found his feet and kept running, the heat of snapping jaws at his tail. A searing pain ripped down his right flank. Draco screamed and flung himself off the stairs. 

He landed hard, and the world went black. Draco forced himself up as air rushed back into his lungs, staggering toward the door and jerking into the air as the beast landed behind him. He scrabbled over the threshold, dodging jagged remains of wood, and dove into the tall grass at the lighthouse’s base, desperate for a place to hide. 

He smelled salvation in the form of a mouse burrow and charged left, diving into the small opening, wriggling his chest and hips. He felt another burst of fire as claws nicked the tip of his tail. He screamed again and clawed deeper into the earth, racing down the serpentine pathway until he reached a large chamber. 

He backed into the corner and curled up, staring at the entrance with wide eyes, chest heaving in pain and fear. He could hear the beast ravaging the earth, smell its hot breath as it stuck its snout into the tunnel, its teeth hoping to finish what its talons had started. 

What felt like hours later, the werewolf retreated, giving up the chase with a long, low howl that made Draco’s fur stand on end. Then, its footsteps began to resonate through the earth as it fell into a steady, furious circuit around the island. 

Draco collapsed, slumping onto the grassy floor, bloody and shaking from nose to tail. 

He had survived, but at what cost?


	5. Chapter 5

 

  **Chapter Five**

The beast's footsteps stopped at dawn, the rhythmic pounding ending as suddenly as a midsummer storm.

Draco dragged himself from the tunnel, stiff and exhausted, and gasped a breath of foggy morning air. It felt like plunging into a lake of cool water after a night in the burrow’s musty confines. He transformed back into a human, groaning as his muscles and limbs lengthened and stretched. Leaning against the lighthouse for support, Draco surveyed the damage.

A mess of splintered wood and iron hinges littered the space between the residence and lighthouse, both doors so obliterated that it was hard to believe they had once been whole. Deep furrows raked the ground surrounding his subterranean refuge, and dark, grey scars scraped across the lighthouse’s white exterior. Forty feet over his head, a three-foot section of gallery railing hung by a single connection of twisted metal. He aimed a quick _Reparo_ at the ruined rail. It shifted back into place with a wailing screech that made his skin crawl.

Draco headed east, making slow progress across the island. The injuries he had sustained on his tail and haunch as a ferret had translated into what felt like a broad scrape across the line of his hips, just above his rear, and a wide line of throbbing fire down his right thigh. He tried to ignore the sticky, cold blood adhering his clothes to his skin, and the uncomfortable pull of them separating as he moved.

He tried not to think about what the injury meant for him. The transformative serotype of the lycanthropy virus could only be transmitted from contact between saliva and blood — a bite, which he had miraculously avoided. The non-transformative serotype, however, could be contracted from a cut if it were deep enough. The cut on his leg almost certainly was.

Thoughts for his own wellbeing faded in importance as the fog broke over Barra Head’s easternmost point, where Hermione lay curled in on herself, bloody, naked, and shivering from the cold.

He knelt beside her, gingerly rolling her over to assess her injuries. Her face was a ruin, both eyes purple and swollen, and a shiny burn ran along the underside of her right jaw. New cuts and contusions layered the old scars on her left arm. The frailty of her shoulders, the twisting angle of her hips and thighs, and the detached slant at which she held her right arm over her breasts made her look broken.

"Draco?”

"Yes.” He took her hand and fought to keep his voice steady, to not betray the grief and fear that threatened to overwhelm him. “You’re going to be okay, Hermione. I’ve got you now, and you’re going to be okay.”

He placed a gentle hand against her back and helped her sit, then stripped off his sweater, draping it over her to preserve her dignity and remaining body heat. He inspected her right shoulder, the area surrounding the joint a sickly yellow-purple. She jerked in pain as he touched it, and his stomach dipped as his fingers, instead of feeling the resistance of bone, sank into flesh.

"It’s dislocated." He swallowed his nausea. “I have to set it.”

She gasped as he drew her right arm away from her chest and pressed the tip of his wand to the unnatural joint hollow.

"Ready?”

She nodded and bit her lip.

"Deep breath.”

At the peak of her inhale, he cast. Hermione’s joint slid back into place with a clunk, and she sagged against him with an exhaled moan.

He gave them two minutes. Two minutes for her breathing to steady and her body’s trembling to subside. Two minutes for him to hold her, to cradle her head against his shoulder and smell the earthy scent of her hair.

"We need to get you cleaned up,” he murmured, pushing her away and regretting the rush of cold that replaced the feel of her body.

"I’m sorry, Draco." She looked anywhere but his eyes. “I didn’t mean to —”

He hushed her. “This was my fault,” he whispered, “not yours.”

"But —”

"We’ll talk about it later.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and felt her weight settle against him as she found her feet. “Let’s just get you home.”

 *

Hermione's bedroom was plain with utilitarian furniture: a double bed with a light blue duvet, an empty nightstand, a dresser, and a small writing desk cluttered with several framed photos. Draco nudged open the door to the water closet and lowered her onto the far edge of an old, clawfoot tub. He turned the hot tap on to full.

He left to grab his ingredient satchel and ready-made potions kit. When he returned, Hermione was working at a small splinter that had embedded in her thigh.

He knelt before her. “I’ll take care of that.”

She drew her hand away and tugged his sweater further down over her hips. He pretended not to notice her embarrassment and distracted himself from his own discomfiture by handing her a vial.

"Mild anesthetic, opium based.” She drained it in one swallow. “Tell me when your lips start to tingle.”

While he waited, he checked the water, which continued to run cold. He set the stopper in place anyway. “Does the Ministry know you don’t have hot water?”

She shrugged her left shoulder. “I think I’m ready,” she said with a slight slur.

Draco used his wand to draw the splinters from her thighs, sanitize the wounds, and seal them with Essence of Dittany. He cast a strong warming charm on the tub, added an opaque potion, and charmed a gentle current. The potion swirled into the water, turning it a milky green and filling the room with the scent of fresh herbs.

"That should help with your healing.” He offered her his hands.

"I can take it from here.”

He dropped his arms and stepped back, awkward without the guise of purpose to shield his presence.

"Right. Sorry. I’ll be just outside.”

He closed the door, then leaned against it, letting his head fall back. He felt exhaustion deep in his bones and wanted nothing more than to curl up on Hermione’s bed and sleep. Instead, he sat at her writing desk, wincing as he put pressure on his injured thigh, and studied her photos.

Potter, Ginny, and their three children smiled up at him from the leftmost frame. The two boys had inherited Potter’s unruly black hair, while the little girl took after her mother. Each looked like a different brand of trouble, and Draco felt a creeping dread at the thought of having all three at Hogwarts simultaneously. In a smaller frame were Weasley and his pretty wife – a dark-skinned woman Draco didn’t recognize. Next were two pictures of the whole Weasley clan, one taken before the Giza pyramid complex, the other in a cozy-looking living room. A lifetime had passed between the two photos; Draco wondered if the family deliberately left space for the missing twin, or if his death had caused a permanent, unconscious distortion.

In the smallest, most worn frame, a man and a woman smiled without moving. The man had glasses and thinning brown hair, but the woman had enough for them both, a riot of graying curls even more unruly than Hermione's. Their expressions had an empty quality, as if unconvinced they should be happy. It was their eyes, he realized. Their smiles never reached beyond their lips, betraying an inner turmoil — a lost joy or a memory forgotten.

Hermione emerged in a cloud of fragrant steam. She was wrapped in a towel, and the weight of the water pulled her hair into long waves that hung over her shoulders. The bruises and swelling around her eyes and shoulder had subsided.

Draco stood. “How do you feel?”

"Better. Human.” She gave a weak smile.

He turned around as she approached the dresser and tried to ignore the sound of drawers opening and closing and the soft swish of fabric as she rummaged for clothes. The muted _whump_ of her towel hitting the floor sent him reeling, and he grabbed for a distraction.

"You look like your mum.”

"Everyone used to the say that. Dad liked to joke that Mum was actually a reincarnation of Zeus and I was Athena, but born from her hips instead of her head.”

"Hermione.” His voice was soft. “It’s Greek, isn’t it?”

"Yes.”

"Your father’s suggestion?”

She hesitated before answering, a quiet and wistful, “Yes.”

She touched his arm. A pair of sweatpants hung from her hips, and an overlarge, long-sleeved cotton shirt covered the scars and bruises on her arms.

"You're hurt.”

He twisted to look at the back of his thigh, his trousers a mess of bloody, ripped fabric. "I'll make do."

"Let me help you."

"You don't have to —”

Hermione’s hand dropped to his, her fingers wrapping around his own. Draco stilled. Her brown eyes searched him, as if trying to look past his body and into the strange machinery beneath. He had the weirdest feeling that she was looking for herself somewhere in his depths.

Her reply was soft but sure. “I want to.”

 *

While Hermione bustled about the residence gathering washcloths, bandages, and a basin for water, Draco removed his trousers and shirt. He hissed at the pull of fabric from flesh, the new scabs tearing away and sending trickles of warm blood into the waistband of his shorts and down his calf. He spread a towel that he'd charmed to be Imperturbable on her bedspread, then eased himself onto it, lying face down.

This morning had been a carousel of unavoidable intimacies. He had seen her body ravaged by the beast that lay dormant within her. Touched her skin, healed her wounds, covered her nakedness. And it was easy because it was clinical. Her injuries let him see her not as a woman, but as a patient. As a collection of hurts to be treated.

But there was more to it than that now.

Hermione was under no obligation to help him, and her offer of aid, her desire to touch and heal him like he had done for her, shattered the professional Healer-patient barrier. He could no longer compartmentalize her vulnerability or his growing fascination with her, or reduce his conception of her to a mere broken doll that needed mending. Hermione was a woman whole – tired, afraid, guilty, and lonely; trapped in a life she didn’t deserve. A life which had been interrupted without her consent by a man she had no reason to trust or even like.

Without knowing it, Hermione had sent them off a precipice, vaulting them from known into unknown with three simple worlds. And as the bed dipped under the weight of her body and the cotton warmth of her thigh pressed against the bloodied skin of his, Draco knew that, for him, there was no return. He would continue to spiral until he struck bottom, and he tried not to think about how it would feel when he landed.

"Draco, could you..."

She held the bowl of water to him, and he propped himself up on one elbow to warm it. He set his wand back on the bedside table. Her eyes lingered upon it.

"You can use it," he offered, chest tight. "My wand. You can —"

She shook her head, looking regretful. "It's against the terms of my exile. Besides, it wouldn't work right for me. It's bonded to you."

"And you're not?"

Their gazes locked for a tense moment, then Draco set his head down on her pillow, focusing on the faint floral smell of shampoo and the subtle musk of sweat as she began to soak the blood from his skin.

"What do you mean by that?” she asked after a too-long pause.

"After all that's happened, do you really have to ask?”

"A debt is only created if I save your life, not take it.”

"You don't think a near-death experience and a few new scars count for anything? Or the mild lycanthropy infection I've contracted? Regardless of what happens at the end of the summer, my impending love of steak carpaccio near the full moon will always remind me of you.”

"And I'll have yet another regret to add to my growing list,” she said bitterly, her anger beginning to surface. “I can't believe you're so cavalier about all this. What I did to you, what could've happened... You shouldn't have even been out there. Why did you lie to me?”

"I thought my potion would work.” He kept his tone level. “I ignored you and put us both at risk, and I'm sorry for that.”

"That still doesn't explain why you lied.”

He debated lying again, falling into old habits that were better off broken. But after what he'd done to her, the pain he'd caused, she deserved to know at least some of the truth.

"I didn't want to argue with you about taking the potion. I wanted you to trust me.”

"Trust goes both ways. I know you're a competent Potions Master and Healer, but it's _my_ body. Don't you think I can read my own symptoms well enough to know when I'm going to transform?"

"It’s not that.”

"Then you don’t trust me to be truthful about them.”

He said nothing.

"You don’t believe I have my own best interests in mind?”

"Ginny approached me for a reason.”

"And her assessment of my mental health is based off what? Some unanswered letters?” Hermione snapped.

He twisted around to glare at her. “When those letters are all she has, _yes_. And from what I’ve seen, she’s not wrong.”

__"You don’t know a thing about me or my life here.”_ _

__"I know enough.”_ _

__He slumped down onto the pillow, and they lapsed into silence, save for the rasp of the washcloth against his skin and the sound of water dripping into the bowl whenever she rung it out._ _

__"These are really deep.” When he didn’t reply, she continued: “I don’t think I should use Dittany.”_ _

__Draco sighed and propped himself up on his elbows once more. “Show me.”_ _

__She reached to her nightstand and held a mirror out to him. It was oval, no longer than his forearm, and deceptively heavy. Its silver frame and handle were carved with intricate vines and worn flowers that looked like roses. An image flickered across its surface, so fast he thought he'd imagined it — a warm bed, a crackling fire, a glass of brandy, a mess of chocolate-brown curls._ _

__He looked a question at her._ _

__"It shows you whatever you want to see,” she explained._ _

__"Like the Mirror of Erised?”_ _

__"No, nothing so complex. It won’t show you your heart’s desire, just what you _want_ to see — friends, family, places. It’s the Ministry-approved substitute for human contact. And, like a human," she said with a rueful look, "it lies sometimes.” _ _

__"How can a mirror lie?”_ _

__"If you want to see the truth, but are afraid of what that truth might mean — what it might change — the mirror will show you a lie to protect you from reality."_ _

__"How do you know?"_ _

__She grimaced. "Ron. I missed him, and whenever I used the mirror, he was alone. This went on for a few years, and though it was strange he hadn't moved on, it was also, I don't know, romantic, in a way? And then I received a wedding invitation." She paused, eyes losing focus. "I didn't want to let him go, and the mirror helped me keep him. I didn't use it much after that. Still don't. I never know if what I see in it is real.”_ _

__Draco frowned and looked into the mirror again, focusing hard on his desire to see the truth. The wound on his back was short and shallow — more like a scrape than a cut. Draco paled when he saw his thigh, however. The werewolf's claws had created an inch-wide furrow of missing flesh that, in some areas, looked just as deep. He was lucky that the beast hadn’t nicked a vein; the wound could've been fatal._ _

__Hermione took the mirror back._ _

__"My thigh needs sutures, but I didn’t bring the right equipment. I didn’t expect…” He trailed off as a headache blossomed behind his eyes._ _

__"I can bandage it, and you can go to St. Mungo’s.”_ _

__"And when they figure out what caused it, I’ll get myself put under quarantine for a month. We can’t afford to lose that time.”_ _

__"Then how —”_ _

__"The Dittany,” he said between clenched teeth. “Do my back first. Maybe the adrenaline will help with the pain.”_ _

__"What about the anesthetic you gave me?”_ _

__He shook his head. “It's nowhere near powerful enough to block this out. Unless you want to Stun me into unconsciousness, we don’t have another option.”_ _

__"I can’t —”_ _

__"It’s either use Dittany or risk infection and amputation.” He hit her with a hard stare. “I choose Dittany.”_ _

__"Fine.”_ _

__Draco braced himself and released a hissing breath as the extract seared the skin of his lower back. The crawling sensation of new growth made him squirm._ _

__"That wasn’t so bad,” he said, trying to keep his voice light._ _

__Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for this.”_ _

__And that was all the warning she gave before setting his leg aflame._ _

__*_ _

When Draco woke, dawn had turned to dusk. He lay on his belly, and a steady ache pulsed through his leg. Hermione was gone.

He lifted himself from the bed, testing his weight. It hurt, but he managed to limp to his bedroom to change his bloody pants and pull on a clean shirt. He gave his trousers a considering, uncomfortable look and decided against. The new skin on his thigh felt thin and tender. Rough treatment risked opening the wound all over again, and he didn't want another round of Dittany so soon.

He made slow progress down the stairs and propped himself against the banister to repair the damaged living room. He restored the shattered window, the shredded sofa, and most of the ravaged books, but the door hung crooked and whistled as the wind sieved through it.

He found Hermione in the kitchen standing before a warming pan of oil and two seasoned chicken breasts.

"How are you feeling?”

Draco cast a Cushioning Charm and lowered himself onto a chair.

"Like shite,” he said, resting his chin on his hand. “You?”

She shrugged. “I’ll live.”

"Did you get any sleep?”

"A little.”

The chicken sizzled when she added it to the pan, and the scent of garlic filled the small room.

"Asparagus okay?”

He nodded and watched her move around the kitchen. The simple domesticity of preparing a meal felt out of place against the complicated fog of the last twenty-four hours. He rubbed his forehead, trying to soothe the remnants of his headache.

"Can we start over, Granger? Pretend the last ten days never happened and go back to an empty cauldron?”

She set a glass of water in front of him. “I don’t know how we could.”

"Can we try? Because ever since I got here, we’ve done nothing but make each other miserable. And not all of it is my fault,” he said at the look she tossed over her shoulder. "I understand that my coming here was a nasty surprise. I understand that I’m the last person you’d want to see after all this time, and I understand that our history makes everything more complicated.

"I'd thought, though, that once the surprise abated, you might be pleased to have company, even if it were me. At the very least, I thought my goal in coming here would bring you around. But it hasn’t.”

Hermione leaned against the counter, arms folded. She looked contemplative and a little sad.

"I see another person once per year. I'm sure you know that, since you've read my records. It's always a Healer, and it's always the same one. An older man, maybe 70 now. I've seen him once a year for fifteen years. He gives me orders — sit, stand, deep breath in, deep breath out — but we've never had a conversation. I've seen him age. I've seen his hair turn grey and wrinkles line his eyes. I've seen him lose and gain weight, change the style of his glasses and the cut of his robes. This man knows everything about me, while I only know what I can see and am forced to imagine the rest.

"That's because to him, I'm not a person. I'm an assignment. I can deal with it for one day, maybe even two. But a week? Three months?” A bitter twist of her lips and a small shrug. “I'm a person, Malfoy. I'm a beast, and I'm a killer, but I'm a person, and I deserve to be treated like one. Even if your potion works, I won’t get that out there.”

"You think solitude is the answer?”

"I killed twenty-three people, one of which was a nine-year-old boy.”

"That wasn't you.”

"But it _was_. I didn't make the decision, but it was my body, my hands. Those families deserve justice, and if my exile serves that purpose, then I'll stay.”

Another piece of her puzzle clicked into place.

"You believe it,” he whispered, incredulous. “You actually believe that you’re doing the right thing by staying here. It’s easier for you, it’s better for them, and that’s enough justification to stay.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Isn't it?”

She turned to flip the chicken, and Draco fought the urge to get up, take her by the shoulders, and shake her until she realized the limitations of her perspective. Just like her mirror, Hermione saw what she expected to see: a world in which she shouldered all the blame for an unpredictable tragedy, and the progress made toward accepting those who had been considered different or forgiving those who had done terrible things did not apply to her.

Draco’s very presence in her kitchen was evidence of a different world – one Hermione could not, or did not, let herself, see. Level-headed compassion had facilitated his release from Azkaban, and trust had helped him create a life at Hogwarts. Yes, there were people who disagreed with those decisions; there always would be. And though they were sometimes the loudest voices, they were also the fewest.

Hermione needed to see that, and Draco thought he knew how to show it to her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

A sharp crack broke the residence’s mid-morning quiet, and the ensuing, ceiling-shaking crash sent Hermione running down the hall to Draco’s laboratory. He lay in a heap across the room among empty cardboard boxes, his cauldron melting into a twisted, iron flower, his robes smoking. 

“Draco!” She rushed to his side and slapped at his face until his eyes fluttered open. “Are you okay?” 

He winced and shifted forward, pressing a hand to the back of his head and checking for blood. 

"Fine,” he groaned. 

"What happened?” 

"Stinking hellebore,” he muttered, pushing himself up. Hermione gave him her arm, and he leaned against the wall, staring grumpily at his former cauldron. “That’s the third cauldron this week.” 

"How many more do you have?” 

"Not enough, at this rate.” 

He limped away from the wall and out of the room, favoring his right leg. He wasn’t bleeding, and Hermione was grateful that he hadn’t torn his still-healing skin. 

"Come for a walk with me, Granger.” 

"Don’t you think you should sit down for a minute?” she suggested, sending a concerned glance at his leg. 

"No.” 

And that settled it. They started a slow circuit of the island and were halfway through their first lap before Draco spoke. 

"I don’t know what I’m missing. I know what I should be looking for, and I feel like I’m close, but…” 

He trailed off with a long sigh, and before she could stop herself, Hermione asked: “What do you have so far?” 

He gave her a sideways glance, and she swore he looked smug, as if he had expected the question and she had proved him right by asking it. 

"What do you know about the lycanthropy virus?” 

"Not much past the essay Snape assigned in our third year." 

"Then you’re only slightly behind the rest of the research community. You look surprised.” 

"I am. Didn't Belby discover the virus’ mode of action before he discovered the treatment?” 

"If Belby had any talent whatsoever, he would’ve. But he invented Wolfsbane by a semi-educated guess-and-check method. Didn’t advance the field at all.” 

"He did provide a life-changing treatment for a marginalized population." 

The point gentled his resentful look. “True enough, but that doesn’t help you now, does it?” 

She tipped her head. He had a point, too. 

"We know that the virus reacts with the light of the full moon,” he continued, “but after that, all we have are theories. The most popular one, which I happen to believe, is that the light from the full moon triggers several viral pathways: one to begin replication and release of the activated, contagious virus through saliva, one to begin the physical transformation from human to wolf, and one to magically catalyze the physical transformation from wolf to werewolf. 

"Wolfsbane potion, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, disrupts that last pathway. Something in the aconite – we’re not sure what – prevents or interrupts the magical catalysis. Instead of turning into a werewolf, the infected becomes a wolf and retains most of his or her mental faculties. Unless you’re immune to it.” 

"What makes me immune?” 

"I wish we knew. Something in your blood, probably,” he said with another sideways glance. “We know most Muggles die when attacked by a werewolf. Typically, survival requires magical blood.” 

It was funny, she supposed. All through Hogwarts, Draco and his ilk had insisted she was different because of her blood. Now that she was a werewolf, there may be a biological basis for proving it. 

Draco grabbed her hand, pulling her to a stop. “Different doesn’t mean inferior.” 

She tried to read his eyes, searching for condescension, insincerity, anything that would betray his true feelings on the subject. Then, he dipped his head to whisper into her ear. 

"I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that.” 

Her heart skipped against her ribcage, and she felt a slight panic when their eyes next met. Draco looked at her like she imagined he must have looked at his students when they were on the verge of an epiphany: a picture of contented patience and quiet pride. Except that Hermione wasn’t sure what lesson she was meant to have learned. She backed away from him, uncertain, and restarted their slow amble. 

"Snape’s nerium theory,” she said, clearing her throat. “That was to test whether my immunity was to aconite or if the pathway itself was resistant to treatment.” 

"Correct. Even though the nerium failed, it still taught us something. For the next attempt, I want to focus on disrupting the physical pathway. Perhaps we can prevent the transformation altogether. I'd also like to find a way to shorten the brew time and the dosing regimen." 

They lapsed into contemplative silence, and after another lap, Hermione turned to him as an idea began to germinate. “What about a fungus?” 

*

They spent the afternoon in the residence’s small library, which the Ministry kept stocked with a rotating collection of Muggle and wizarding paperbacks, a set of encyclopedias, and the most recent _Daily Prophet_. Hermione extracted the appropriate encyclopedia and started reading, while Draco reacquainted himself with the theory behind Potions research. 

Late in the evening, her quill nib dulled from a growing pile of discarded drafts, Hermione put the final flourishes on the recipe she and Draco had discussed, debated, and eventually agreed upon. She held it out to him. 

"Good luck.” 

He quirked his head to the side, the candlelight softening his strong features. “Good luck? Granger, you’re going to brew this one.” 

Her arm fell, the joy from the day’s work fading. “You know I can’t.” 

"I know you had your wand confiscated and are prohibited from using mine. But I’m not asking you to use a wand.” 

"It’s not just a wand. I’m prohibited from using magic.” 

He grinned. “Potions aren’t magic. Some of the ingredients may be, but the process itself – slicing, skinning, weighing, stirring – is mundane. A Muggle could make a potion, if he had the proper resources.” 

Hermione gaped, her eyes flitting down to the parchment in her hands. Draco was right. Her sentence prohibited her from performing magic, but there was nothing about brewing that involved spellcasting. It was a loophole, and though Hermione was no advocate, even a novice would be able to defend her decision to the Wizengamot, if indeed anyone ever found out. 

"Okay,” she said, a smile creeping over her lips. “I’ll brew this one.” 

She followed Draco upstairs, and he cleared his bench of the ruined cauldron and scrap ingredients from earlier. He Unshrunk a new cauldron, filled it with water, and ignited a small flame beneath its pewter belly. Then, he tapped his wand on his ingredient kit. It expanded like a Muggle tackle box, revealing layers upon layers of vialed powders, leaves, infusions, and extracts of every imaginable shade, each neatly labelled and arranged alphabetically. His tools were organized on the topmost shelf – a granite cutting board, three mortar-and-pestle sets of various sizes, and a collection of knives, smooth and serrated, silver and sharp. 

He gestured her forward. “The bench is yours.” 

Her heart began to race with nervous energy, and her hands shook as she reached for the cutting board and a small knife. The first vial she chose rattled against the others as she lifted it from its line. She replaced it and let her hand rest, closing her eyes, exhaling. She shuddered when Draco moved in close behind her. She could feel the heat from his body along her length, as if he contained a smoldering fire, ready to ignite at the first hint of wind. 

His fingers brushed hers, closed around them, and helped her withdraw the vial without a tremor of uncertainty. She twisted to look up at him, her shoulders brushing his chest, their noses mere inches apart. 

He wanted to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, molten silver and rich with promise. She could feel it in the tension of his body and the shudder of his breath, every inch of him anticipatory and humming, like he was at the zenith of a flight and just waiting for the proper signal to begin a death-defying dive toward the ground. Toward her. 

A different kind of beast roared to life within her chest, inhabiting every space of her body and folding itself between the cracks of her mind, filling the gaps she had created over fifteen years. The weight of isolation sloughed away, and Hermione felt awake after an eternity of sleep, burning with the potential she thought had been taken from her and alive with the possibility of a future greater than the one that stretched before her. 

She felt herself sway, the muscles in her legs and back going loose, but before she could do more than take a breath, he pulled away, leaving her dizzy. 

"Get to work,” he breathed, setting her hand, which still held the vial, onto the bench. 

She watched him leave, heart leaping as he gave her a final, over-the-shoulder look. Then,with steady hands, a focused mind, and something that felt like hope filling her chest, Hermione turned to the cauldron and fell into the rhythm of potion-making. 

*

Hermione’s attempts brought nothing but failure. Every new combination she and Draco tried resulted in disaster, from catastrophic, spontaneous combustions to the quieter disappointments of fatal blood tests. They worked through Draco’s extensive collection of dried and fresh fungi, the mounting time pressure amplifying the consequences of each ruinous attempt and fueling barbed arguments that left them both fuming and desperate for space. 

Yet despite their mounting frustration, they were never apart for long. She could not speak to his reasons for seeking her out with a new idea or bringing her afternoon tea, but she knew exactly why she scoured the library for useful books and used more garlic than normal when it was her turn to prepare dinner. 

That single moment of intimacy had woken something within her, and she could not put it back to sleep. When they were together, working side-by-side at the cauldron or cooking together in the kitchen or theorizing while walking the island, the almost-kiss lingered between them like a meddling matchmaker, inexorably closing an emotional distance that Hermione was powerless to maintain, even if she had wanted to. 

The desire to touch him again thrummed through her fingers, and she took advantage of every opportunity to do so, brushing his hand when they traded ingredients, leaning back slightly when he stood behind her so that she could feel the warmth of his body, touching his arm when she had an idea and wanted his attention. 

It was juvenile behavior, and though it only built the tension between them, she didn't stop. Because she had missed it. Even if only for that one moment, Draco had seen her as a woman and not a beast. The memory of being desired, the feeling of being thought _worthy_ , was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She didn't want it to fade. Would do anything to keep it, even if it meant making his eventual and unavoidable goodbye that much more difficult. 

And that time was fast approaching. 

After she melted her second cauldron in as many weeks, Draco pulled her away from the smoking bench and onto the chaise he had magicked into the _de facto_ laboratory. 

"I think we should continue to investigate the _Russula_ genus,” she babbled, made anxious by his proximity and the serious look in his grey eyes. “Maybe _R. sardonia_ , as it’s not as powerful as _R. emetica_. I think our base, at least, has proven stable enough to —” 

"We’re on our last cauldron.” 

Hermione trailed off and stared at the darkening sky, nerves abruptly quieting to a resigned calm. The full moon was tomorrow. Though she ignored them the best she could, she had felt the symptoms of the change strengthening all week. Whatever potion they made tonight would be their last attempt for this lunar cycle. 

"I still think we should try the _Russula_.” 

"I agree,” he said, “the _Russula_ have shown promise. But I want to discuss what happens if this next attempt fails.” 

Her shoulders stiffened. “Do you think it will?” 

He rolled his in a half shrug. 

"Okay. What happens if the next attempt fails?” 

"We keep trying.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes at his dramatics. “That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” 

He gave her a grim smile. “You say that on this side of the bench, but I’ve seen more than one experienced Potioneer trash his ingredient kit after repeated failures. I don’t want that to happen to you. Or my kit,” he added as an afterthought. 

"It won’t,” she assured him. She wasn’t looking forward to her transformation; it was painful and frightening to not have control over her own body. But she was also reasonable. They had been trying to find a treatment for two months, and it had taken Belby a lifetime to invent his original brew. Though it was hard not to think of the other side, Hermione knew that this process would not be a quick one. 

"If it fails, I’m going to spend the night on the mainland. _Really_ ,” he insisted at her deadpan look. “I’ll come back in the morning to make sure you’re okay, but then I’ll need to go again for more cauldrons.” 

Their eyes met, and Hermione's nerves returned in a rush. He looked at her as one might look at a stubborn, unsolved riddle. “I still have one month left on this island," he said, "and I intend to make use of every minute.” 

*

Early in the afternoon on the day of the full moon, Draco ladled a measure of potion into a mug. The porcelain warmed as Hermione cupped it in her palms. 

"This isn’t the end,” he reminded her, drawing her eyes away from the mug’s pinkish contents. 

"I know." And she did, but it was still nice to hear. 

She pressed the mug to her lips and managed no more than one swallow before her stomach heaved. Draco snatched the mug from her hands with a Seeker’s dexterity and a wordless exclamation of surprise as she lurched forward. She braced herself on the doorjamb and inhaled through her nose, her jaw clamped shut against her roiling gut. Once she got herself under control, she looked back at a wide-eyed Draco. 

"Are you okay?” 

She didn’t trust herself to speak, so instead nodded and reached for the mug. Draco held it close to his chest and stepped backwards. 

"I don’t think you should take the rest.” 

"The first one knocked me out,” she said between clenched teeth. “How is this one any different?” 

Draco’s worried expression closed like a sprung trap, turning stony and annoyed, and Hermione knew she’d won. Reluctantly, he handed the potion over. 

"For the record, I’m against this.” 

"Noted.” 

Hermione steeled herself with a deep inhale, already fighting the urge to retch, and tipped the mug, draining the brew in one long swallow. But there was no fighting it. She fell forward, landing hard on her hands and knees, and vomited until she brought up bile. Tears streamed down both her cheeks and snot ran from her nose as she gasped in air. Draco pressed a steady hand to her back and Vanished the mess. He handed her a large handkerchief, and she turned her face away as she cleaned herself up. 

"Are you okay?” Draco asked again, rubbing absent, comforting circles on her back. 

"Yes,” she replied, her voice hoarse. She shifted into a sitting position, and the room began to tilt. She closed her eyes and set both feet flat on the floor, trying for a sense of balance and failing. 

"No," she amended, clutching at his arm. "Everything's spinning." 

"Ah, shite. _Accio kit_." 

The vials clinked as he sorted through them, and there was a small _pop_ as he removed a cork. She flinched when he pressed the a vial to her bottom lip. 

"This should help. Head back, please." 

A small measure of a cool, bitter liquid coated her tongue. Almost immediately, she felt a little steadier and loosened her hold on him. She stiffened when she felt his arm loop beneath her knees. 

"No, I'm okay, just give me a moment." 

"Hush, Granger. Most women would swoon at being carried to their room by such a strapping man." 

Her small laugh turned into a pained whine as he lifted her. The change of orientation made everything tilt again, even behind closed eyes. She appreciated the attempt at distraction, nonetheless. 

"I'm sorry I couldn't keep it down." 

"I'm glad you didn't. Emesis is a reflex for a reason. Though we know that potion wouldn't have killed you, I'm sure metabolizing it wouldn't have been an enjoyable experience." 

She rested her head against his shoulder, exhausted. "You need to come up with a better diagnostic test," she murmured. 

"Believe me, Granger, it's next on my list." 

He laid her down, and she began to drift as soon as her head hit the pillow, feeling a warm hand on her scarred cheek before she slipped into sleep. 

*

When Hermione woke, the world was steady again and all traces of her headache had disappeared. The grey day had become a dark evening, and rain lashed against the windows. She could feel the approach of sunset in the familiar, bone-deep ache of her impending transformation. The wax-smoke scent of lit candles wafted up the stairs, and she descended them weary and despondent. 

Draco waited for her in the foyer, his ingredient satchel packed and set near the door. She knew he had to go — she wanted him to — but something heavy wrapped itself around her heart and tugged at the thought of it. She paused, keeping half the stairway between them. 

"I don’t have much time left.” 

"Yes, you do," he said, offering her his hand. Flickering light played off his features, warming his platinum hair into gold and making his eyes dance. 

She did not reach for him. “Draco…” 

He dropped his arm, and closed the gap between them, stopping on the stair below hers so that their eyes were almost level. 

"Our work isn't over yet, Hermione," he said. "I'm not giving up, and neither are you." 

His fingers traced the pattern of the scars across her cheek, and Hermione clutched the handrail to keep from falling into him. He leaned forward, and her eyes fluttered closed. 

"Dawn tomorrow,” he promised, warm breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. “I’ll see you then.” 

Her breath hitched as he pulled away from her, and she watched, numb, as he scooped up his satchel and left her. She hurried to the window but lost sight of him in the rain. She could imagine his quick pace across the island, his careful steps down the steep path between the cliffs behind the lighthouse, and the splash of his boat as it cut through the water. 

A tremor coursed through her body, and she stepped outside, preparing for her transformation. 

It was a fair trade — a sweet promise and a quick goodbye for another four weeks. A night of pain and loneliness for a month of happiness and company. 

Beyond that, she could not begin to imagine. She had adjusted so completely to life with him — his intelligence, his focus, his restraint and maturity, his occasional snark. The way he made her feel normal, like she was his equal. Like she was a person. 

She knew what she felt was insane and unjustifiable, a product of her isolation and instinctive need for emotional connection. She knew that every quirk of his eyebrow or touch of his hand was magnified by their forced proximity and impromptu partnership, and that if they had existed in the real world, outside of the bubble of Barra Head, that there would be one million forces keeping them apart. She knew that he had a life outside of this — a good life, with a career, a family, and a future, unconstrained by Ministry wards or geography or the orbit of the moon — and that she probably never would. 

Hermione knew all of these things, but that still did not prevent her from loving him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Draco wrapped his arms around his chest, hunching against the steady rain and gusting wind. The boat rocked in the water, the ocean’s brine collecting on his shoes and cloak, and Draco knew that good sense would be to make for the mainland. 

But he was beyond good sense. He had crossed that thin line into insanity the moment he agreed to come to Barra Head and decided to stay there after he’d gotten to know its only resident. A chill crawled over his skin as the moon rose, wielding its power even from behind thick clouds. A mournful howl echoed over the waves, and Draco saw, between flashes of distant lightning, a dark shadow begin to race around the island. Running in circles, going nowhere. 

He felt its pain. His time on the island was limited, and though he could lecture Hermione on tempered hope and measured progress easily enough, it was harder to convince himself. Each failure dragged him deeper into research fatigue. If his mind slipped into familiar patterns, he might lose his edge, and research without innovation was like a Hippogriff with clipped wings: impressive but useless. 

Fortunately, Snape had prepared him for this, emphasizing the importance of questioning assumptions, no matter how unlikely. In Hermione's case, there was plenty to doubt — the nature of her immunity, the mechanism of the Wolfsbane potion, the interaction of the virus and the moon... 

A thought struck him, and he raised his eyes to the east-southeast, where the moon had started its climb into the night sky. 

His and Hermione’s shared attempts had so far focused on interrupting one of the viral pathways triggered by interaction of moonlight and the virus. But what if he tried to stop the moonlight from _reaching_ the virus? Belby had tried this approach, of course, and had dismissed it as a lost cause. But Draco was better than Belby – more intelligent, more thorough, and certainly more motivated. 

If he could find a way to protect the virus, to shield it from the moon’s effects, he could prevent Hermione’s transformation. If he could reflect the light back, or find a substance that would absorb it… 

A substance like _Datura_. 

Moonflowers. 

He nearly shot to his feet, and the abrupt motion caused the tiny boat to heave. Draco gripped the bench beneath him and, when the boat steadied, withdrew his wand. He tapped it once on the craft’s stern, turning it away from Barra Head and motoring it toward the Scottish mainland. 

There was no time to waste. _Datura_ , which only bloomed at night, were most potent when harvested when the full moon reached its zenith. 

He had to get to Hogwarts. 

*

Draco hung the freshly picked moonflowers upside down by his hearth to dry as he shrunk all the spare cauldrons he could find. He brushed aside a tower of correspondence and old _Daily Prophet_ s but paused when he saw Hermione’s face staring up at him from the front page of the most recent copy. It was her mugshot, taken the morning after her rampage through St. Mungo’s, almost immediately after she had learned of the harm the beast had caused. She was drawn and pale, and her eyes were dead. She looked capable of the murders she had committed, though Draco knew she had simply not yet processed what had happened. 

A wave of simmering anger swept through his chest when his eyes skipped to the photo’s accompanying headline. 

**Werewolf of London: Where Is Hermione Granger?**

_Astoria Greengrass, London 20 July 2013._

Fifteen years ago, Hermione Granger, famed war heroine and Muggle-born friend of Harry Potter, transformed into a werewolf and slaughtered twenty-three innocent people, including one nine-year-old child, at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The Wizengamot sentenced Granger to a life of exile for her heinous crimes, a judgment she has been serving ever since. 

_Or has she_? 

Sources close to the Ministry allege that Granger has not, in fact, been exiled from the United Kingdom. Though the sources did not specify where Granger currently resides, they are confident that she remains a citizen to this day. 

The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, who also serves as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was a close friend of Granger’s at the time of her trial, yet failed to recuse himself from her judgment or sentencing. (Minister Shacklebolt declined to comment on Granger’s whereabouts or his own potential interference in her sentencing.) 

An investigation into Granger’s transformation found that it resulted from a natural immunity to Wolfsbane potion. When asked if an alternative to Wolfsbane potion had yet been discovered, Lucie Miere, Head Potioneer for St. Mungo’s said, “St. Mungo’s has allocated significant resources to Potion discoveries for all diseases, including Wolfsbane-immune lycanthropy. As of now, we have not yet had any success in a non-Wolfsbane treatment for the immune lycanthrope population.” 

_Has_ our government allowed a dangerous werewolf to live among us for fifteen years? 

_Will_ Minister Shacklebolt be held accountable by the wizarding citizenry of the United Kingdom? 

_Where_ is Hermione Granger, and who else has she hurt?

Draco stalked through the castle until he reached Pansy’s personal chambers. He pounded on the door, and he heard hushed voices break off mid-conversation. Quiet feet padded across the room. 

"Can we help you?” Pansy said, cracking the door and giving Draco a supercilious look. 

He ignored her and shoved past to confront Astoria, who reclined on the couch in a silk robe, drinking wine and looking nonplussed. 

"Where did you get your information?” 

She set down her glass and swung her feet onto the floor. “A good journalist protects her sources.” 

"You’re not a journalist,” he said derisively. “You’re a muckraker, no better than that Skeeter woman.” 

Astoria’s blue eyes narrowed, and she rose sinuously from her seat. “I seem to remember you working well with Rita in our fourth year.” 

"That was different. I was young and naive —” 

"And you didn’t have anything to hide,” she finished with a smirk. “How is she doing on Barra Head, Draco?” 

Panic sent his heart skidding to a halt. 

"I know that’s where you’ve been for the past two months, trying to cure her. I assume it’s not going well, since you’re here on a full moon. Tell me, how fast did Shacklebolt sign the permits once Potter put them through? Did he even read them, or were he and Potter so desperate to get their golden girl back on the mainland that they were merely rubber stamped?” 

Draco spoke through clenched teeth. “What do you want?” 

She moved closer to him, cupping his cheek with her hand, and rose onto hertiptoes to whisper into his ear. “You know what I want.” 

Draco studied her eyes, which were as cold and calculating as her touch. “You can’t blackmail me into being with you.” 

She raised a blonde eyebrow. “Oh? So far, my quill has been aimed at Shacklebolt and Granger. I’ve kept you out of it. But that can change. It can get so much worse for you, Draco. It can get so much worse for all of you.” 

"It will anyway, I imagine. You posted that story two days ago — how long had you been working on it? And how many other articles do you have ready to go to press?" He scoffed. "You never expected me to accept your terms." 

Astoria lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug, as if his decision hadn't mattered either way. "It was unlikely, but I had to try." 

He looked at Pansy. “And you’re okay with this?” 

She shifted her weight. “I’ve always loved to see you squirm,” she said, hedging, “but Astoria, don’t you think you may be going a little far?” 

"I’d be doing our society a justice by exposing the Ministry’s lies and corruption.” 

"It’s not just them you’d be exposing,” Draco snapped. “Hermione’s been through enough without you dredging up the past.” 

Astoria’s eyes widened, and Draco realized his mistake. 

" _Hermione_.” Astoria’s composure dissolved into an ugly sneer. "On a first-name basis, are you? And how else have you familiarized yourself, I wonder? How else have you disgraced your family and your blood? She's a Mudblood, a murderer, and a monster, and you —” 

Draco’s silent hex deflected off the shield Pansy cast between them, blasting apart a half-empty bottle in an explosion of green glass and red wine. Astoria flinched, then leveled a cruel smile at him. 

"I hope your goodbye was a sweet one, Draco. Because once I'm through, she’ll never want to see you again.” 

*

Draco sprinted through the school’s corridors, ingredient satchel banging against his hip at each footfall. The moment he cleared the Anti-Apparition boundary, he spun on his heel. The smell of the salty ocean air made filled him with hope. Barra Head was just a short boat ride away. 

He tossed his satchel into the boat and gripped one side to run it into the surf but lurched backwards when the boat didn’t budge. Kingsley gripped the stern with a restraining hand and an uncompromising expression. Behind him stood Harry, who looked out at the water. 

"You never saw me,” Draco offered, his entire body tense, eyes darting between the two men. “The boat was gone when you arrived.” 

"Can’t do that, Malfoy,” Kingsley said, his voice a rumble. “We’re in enough trouble as is.” 

Draco drew his wand and aimed it at the Minister. “You gave me permission to go.” 

"And now I’m rescinding it. Magical Law Enforcement will arrest you the minute you set foot on that island, and you will be charged with criminal trespassing.” 

"Lower your wand, Malfoy.” 

Draco shifted his aim to Harry. “I promised her, Potter. I promised her I’d come back.” 

"We’ll write her a letter, explain everything. She’ll understand.” 

"No letters.” 

"But Kingsley —” 

"Bullshite!” 

Kingsley’s voice rose above their protests. “Greengrass’s next article has already been submitted to the _Prophet_. It will run in the morning, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Ministry advocates have prohibited all incoming and outgoing communication with the island until they have a better understanding of our legal footing and what information Greengrass has. There’s nothing we can do for her tonight, so for Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, lower your wand and go home. I’ll let you know when something changes. Potter, we’ll talk more soon.” 

Kingsley Disapparated, and Draco lowered his wand. 

"How did this get out?” he asked with a growl. 

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know yet. We kept this close. Kingsley, Ginny and me, and some paper pusher down in Legal.” 

Draco ran a hand through his hair and stared longingly out at the ocean, where on a barren molar of rock and scrub grass, a beast ran in circles. In a few hours, a woman would wake, naked and alone and looking for him. When she didn’t find him, she would pick herself up and close herself off, all the lies she had convinced herself were true over the past fifteen years starkly reinforced by his broken promise. 

Potter stood next to him on the shoreline. “How is she?” 

"Getting better.” 

"But?” 

"She’s afraid. She doesn’t think she belongs in this world anymore.” 

Harry sighed. “She’s always been good at self-sacrifice.” 

"Would it kill her to be bad at something, for once?” Draco grumbled. 

Harry huffed a laugh and turned to Draco with an appraising look. “I thought Ginny was mad when she suggested we ask for your help, but you might be just what Hermione needed. Go figure.” He took his glasses off and put them in his shirt pocket, preparing to Disapparate. “I’ll be in touch, Malfoy.” 

*

Every two days, a new article hit the _Prophet_ ’s front page, unveiling Hermione’s story bit by bit. First, Astoria dredged up Hermione’s personal history and role in the war, questioning her reputation as both a heroine and symbol of a reformed society. Then, with excruciating detail, Astoria documented her disastrous fall to a murderous half-breed. She speculated on Hermione’s mental state, theorizing that the isolation had made her even more unstable and suggesting, to the rabid support of anti-werewolf activists, that reintegration into society would be impossible and dangerous. 

An entire week was devoted to corruption within the Ministry: how Hermione’s “exile” was hardly exile at all, and the role Kingsley and Harry had played in her sentencing. An emotional interview with the murdered boy’s mother, Emmeline Potts, intensified Astoria’s _miscarriage of justice_ angle and drummed up more public support from victim’s rights groups across wizarding society. 

Draco was brought in soon after. Astoria took great pains to remind the public of his own colorful past and his current role in shaping the lives of young, innocent, and impressionable children. He sent the resulting influx of Howlers zooming to Pansy’s quarters and was pleased to see, during their infrequent run-ins on the Hogwarts grounds, that she sported several singed fingers. 

Astoria also discussed the on-going attempts to find an alternative treatment for lycanthropy, even recruiting Belby himself to swear it couldn’t be done. In a scathing interview, Belby insisted that Draco’s work was futile and, indeed, an assignment to be pitied. That only someone whose work brought no value to the wizarding world would be given it, and only someone who knew that to be true would take it. 

Draco thought that, after attacking his reputation and career, there could be no further avenue left to insult. But in her third article about him, Astoria made good on her promise to ruin him. 

She hinted that Draco himself was the source of her information. 

She never stated it in a way that a reader unfamiliar with the specifics of Hermione’s exile would understand, but her profile of everyday life on Barra Head held details so minute that they could not be guessed at; they had to have come from a primary source, someone who had been to the island, who had seen it with their own eyes. Astoria knew about the agreement with the Muggles to maintain the lighthouse, the layout and inner appearance of the residence, and the restrictions of the wards. She knew details about Hermione’s health and daily habits. She knew about the dirt track worn around the island’s circumference. 

As the final piece of her exposé, after she had laid the groundwork for the danger Hermione posed, the Ministry’s complicity, and Draco’s impractical task, after she had stoked the public’s fears into a wild blaze, Astoria provided a new target in a remarkable three-word publication: Barra Head Island. 

An exodus of reporters, opponents, supporters, and curious onlookers flooded the choppy North Atlantic, surrounding Hermione’s small island. They brought signs and wrote messages in the air that, good or bad, would last for hours. They yelled with magically magnified voices, used long-range lenses to try to snap pictures of her, and filled bottles with quill and parchment in attempts to reach her for a quote. Kingsley deployed a Magical Law Enforcement patrol to ensure no one attempted to breach the island, but as they had no authority over the surrounding water, they could do nothing to prevent people from gathering. 

Though it was tempting to follow the news, to take a magnifying glass to every printed photo for even a glimpse of her, Draco ignored it all. He kept his nose in his cauldron and burned his copies of the _Prophet_. The August full moon was fast approaching, and he had work to do. 

*

Draco stood in the shadows of a large tree and stared out at the green and red lights bobbing across the water. Dozens upon dozens of boats had launched into the North Atlantic – some privately owned, some rented, some chartered tours – to see the spectacle of a werewolf transformation from the safety of the water. His fingers itched with the desire to curse every single one of them. 

A faint pop drew him from the shadows, and Harry appeared next to the rickety rowboat. 

"About time.” 

"Kingsley held me up. I think he knows.” He tapped his wand twice against the boat’s hull. “That should get the boat through the Ministry’s protection wards, but once you set foot on that island, they’ll be after you.” 

"I know.” 

Harry nodded toward Draco’s satchel. “Will it work?” 

Draco brushed his fingers across the satchel’s soft leather, forever stained with the ocean’s salt water, and thought he could feel the magic of his _Datura_ potion. “It'd better.” 

Together, they pushed the boat into the water. 

"Good luck,” Harry said, and Draco raised a parting hand before tapping his wand on the boat’s stern and motoring through the ocean’s chop. 

The island loomed larger. Several boats drifted close to the island, some with floodlights and opportunistic photographers perched on their bows. Draco hexed the ones in range, feeling a grim satisfaction as their lights exploded in a shower of sparks. 

He took the long way around the island, dodging the Ministry’s lone patrol boat and pulling onto the rocky shore at the dilapidated jetty on the island’s northwest side. He slung his satchel over his shoulder and checked his watch. Five minutes until moonrise. He didn’t think about how quickly he could make the climb up the steep north slope or what he would find when he did. He just leapt from the boat and began to sprint, desperate to reach her before Magical Law Enforcement reached him. 

He crested the rise and saw her leaning against the lighthouse and staring at the sky. 

"Hermione!” 

She opened her eyes and turned around, the hem of her bathrobe swishing around her calves. She looked at him as if he were a ghost and backed away in fear. 

"You can’t be here!” she shouted, her voice shaking. “It’s almost time, you can’t!” 

He skidded to a stop before her and shoved the vial into her hands. It glittered like moonlight across the ocean, pearlescent and shining. 

"Drink it! Now!” 

Draco spun and drew his wand as several cracks broke her stunned silence. Magical Law Enforcement had arrived. 

"Wand down, hands up!” an officer with the nametag reading “Nune” shouted. 

"You’re too late!” Draco shouted. “Moonrise!” 

Their eyes turned to the east, where the incandescent moon had eclipsed the horizon. The five officers exploded into action. Three Disapparated, while Nune and the officer to his right lunged forward, hands clamping around Draco’s arms and hauling him backwards. 

He struggled against them, rapt eyes focused on Hermione alone. The empty vial fell from her limp fingers, and she shuddered. A tremor caused her skin to ripple like water disturbed by a skipped stone, and then she collapsed. Her body jerked spasmodically: she was seizing. 

Draco wrenched himself away from his captors and sprinted to her, falling to his knees by her side. When he rolled her over, she was still. 

"No!” He moaned. “No, no, no… _Ennervate_. _Ennervate_!” 

She woke with a choked gasp and the hideous crack of breaking bones. Draco fell backwards and scuttled away, watching in horror as the beast took hold, as her skin ripped and reformed around her wiry, elongated limbs. The pupils of her unnatural amber eyes tightened into pinpricks of black as they focused on him. 

Draco’s heart thundered against his ribcage, fear and failure equal actors in his paralysis. The beast rose onto its haunches, its lips pulling back over its fangs. 

"GET DOWN!” 

Twin jets of red light seared the air over his head and connected with the beast’s chest. It flew backward, landing in a sprawl. 

"Let’s go!” said Nune with a growl, hefting Draco to his feet. Tight bindings pulled his arms behind his back, securing them at his wrists, and a short length of chain bound him between the ankles. 

He let himself be dragged away, feeling boneless as he stared at the werewolf’s motionless form. 

The other officer approached the werewolf, wand carefully aimed. 

"Is it out, Reed?” Nune shouted. 

"Don’t know… I can’t — _Shite_!” Reed stumbled backward and broke into a stumbling run, his face a mask of terror. “Go! Go!” 

The werewolf leapt toward the retreating officer and would have landed had Nune not sent a powerful hex sailing at its chest, knocking it off course. The werewolf landed on its feet, raking deep gouges into the earth as it slid to a stop at the edge of the cliff. 

Reed Disapparated, and the beast staggered forward, its chest heaving as its eyes settled on Draco and Nune. 

"I’ve got you now,” Nune muttered, and before Draco could move, a burst of bright green light erupted from his wand. The beast dropped the moment it was hit, as still as a stone, and Draco felt something within him break as he was Disapparated from Barra Head.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_One Week Later_... 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, the Wizengamot accepts your plea of guilty to the charges of illegal trespassing on Ministry property, unlawful contact with a Ministry prisoner, resisting arrest, two counts of willful endangerment of a Ministry official, and assaulting an officer. Do you have anything further to add on your own behalf before the court passes its sentence?” 

Draco shot his advocate — an expensive attorney named Meera Du — a side-eyed glance. The dark-haired woman subtly shook her head. 

He turned back to Perry Archambault, the stern Deputy Chief Warlock. “No, your honor." 

"Very well." Perry drew his thick eyebrows together and cleared his throat. "For your crimes, the Wizengamot sentences you to the following terms. You are sentenced to time served in Azkaban. To the Magical Law Enforcement Officials Health and Security Trust, you will pay a fine of 2,000 Galleons. To the Creature-Related Injuries Trust, you will pay a fine of 2,000 Galleons. You are assigned 520 hours of community service, to be performed outside of your normal duties at Hogwarts." 

Here, Meera cleared her throat. "A request, your honor." 

Perry frowned from his seat on the bench; Meera continued. 

"My client has spent two months on Barra Head Island working to better the wizarding community through advancement of Potions. We request that this additional community service be fulfilled by time served." 

"Request denied," Perry answered, almost before Meera had stopped speaking. "The Wizengamot deems these —" 

"Your honor," Meera cut in again, "a point of clarification." 

Perry scowled; nevertheless, she persisted. 

"My client's expertise, as you know, lies in Potions. Indeed, and perhaps the court would agree, Mr. Malfoy's time would be wasted transcribing old parchment in the Ministry's archives or refilling the kitchenette's tea stocks." 

"I'd say that's exactly what Mr. Malfoy needs to learn his lesson," Perry rumbled. 

"But would that best serve the _community_ , your honor?" 

Perry's ruddy face darkened in anger. "What do you suggest, Ms. Du?" 

"Allow my client to fulfill his community service by pursuing worthwhile Potions work, to be carried out under supervision of St. Mungo's staff. Mrs. Miere, of Level Three, Potions and Plant Poisonings, has volunteered to supervise Mr. Malfoy in this capacity and will provide the court with written progress reports upon request." 

"And what does Mrs. Miere get out of this?" 

"Mrs. Miere gets what every witch and wizard of our great country desires and what we public servants are honor-bound to do: to make a powerful, positive difference for those who need help." 

Perry's mouth gaped, then snapped closed. Draco bit his cheeks to keep from smiling; though he might be close to bankrupt by the time his trial was over, Du was worth every Knut. 

*

Headmistress Sprout had no patience for those parents who claimed that their child would not be taught by a werewolf-loving madman, and so Draco was treated to a full classroom and a marked decrease in the number of Howlers at the start of term. By the end of the first week, all his students, but particularly those who Draco thought were in danger of falling into the dangerous trap of indoctrination, were loaded with so much homework that they had no time to repeat or reinforce their parents' lies. 

Pansy knocked on his door as he was packing for his first ten-hour day of community service. He ignored her, even when she let herself in and helped herself to a seat across from his desk. The same seat Ginny had occupied a little over three months ago. His fingers tightened around a clean porcelain pestle; it felt like a decade had passed between then and now. 

"Since when has ignoring me done you any good?" Pansy's normally pugnacious voice was contrite. 

Draco packed the pestle away and considered his replenished cauldron collection. He wondered if he would have to bring his own or if St. Mungo's would provide theirs. He decided to play it safe, at least for his first day, and shrunk two, stowing them in his satchel's side pocket. 

"Is this going to be an all-year thing?" she tried again, with a little more venom. "Do I have to kneel? Beg? Swear fealty to house Malfoy and all things furry and half-bred?" 

Draco spun his wand across his index finger, a careless, habitual gesture that Pansy ignored, to her detriment. A force like an invisible hand shoved her chair out of his office. Her indignant scream stopped when the chair struck an uneven stone and sent her tumbling. Draco sidestepped the chair as it scraped back into place and left his office, locking the door behind him. 

"Draco!" she shrieked. Something sharp impacted his shoulder blade. He turned, unsurprised to see a high-heeled shoe sitting about a foot away. Pansy held the other in her hand, poised to throw it if provoked. She looked wild, her eyes wide, hair disheveled, and chest heaving, as if she were at the edge of some great emotional catastrophe. 

"I never meant for it to go as far as it did,” she said, voice cracking, “but you can’t make me choose between you.” 

“Yes, I can,” he said, resisting the temptation to say aloud every nasty thing he’d thought about her over the past few weeks. Her shoe-wielding arm lowered a fraction, and Draco took that as his cue to leave. 

*

Lucie Miere’s handshake was firm, and she smelled like a cauldron – a mix of warm iron, fresh herbs, and just a touch of death. Draco liked her immediately. 

“You’ll be working with me." She showed him into a well-stocked lab on the third level of St. Mungo’s and gestured to the empty bench. “You can set up here. Entry is wand controlled, and only you and I will have access, so please feel free to make yourself at home.” 

He set his satchel down and leaned against the bench. “Mrs. Miere —” 

“Call me Lu.” 

“Lu,” he amended. “I want to thank you for working with Meera. I don’t know what I would’ve done if they’d sent me to the Ministry archives.” 

Lu inclined her head and smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening into creases. 

“I’m up for whatever potion you have for me,” he continued, “simple or complex. I think you’ll find I’m a competent brewer at any skill level.” 

“As the Potions Master of Hogwarts, I'd hope so. However, St. Mungo’s keeps me well staffed, and my team has some of the most consistent brewers I’ve ever seen. I trust their work, and I _need_ to trust them for the good of the hospital’s patients. So, I’m afraid your work in fulfilling our incoming potion requests will be nonexistent.” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Then what will I be brewing?” 

“I had hoped you would be interested in more theoretical work,” she said, giving him a sly smile. “Maybe a potion that aligns with your personal interests as well as one of my department’s research objectives.” 

He straightened, heartbeat quickening in excitement. “A Wolfsbane alternative?” 

Lu’s smile widened. “Your _Datura_ theory has potential, and I have a few ideas of some adjustments we can make that I’d like your opinion on. But there is a problem: we’d need samples from a Wolfsbane-immune subject for our testing. I know of one patient who may be willing to provide the blood, but my responsibilities here prevent me from traveling and obtaining her written consent.” 

“I’ll go,” he said, trying not to sound too eager. Apparently, he failed, because Lu laughed outright. 

“Glad to hear it. It’s a small island just off the northern coast of Wales called Middle Mouse.” 

“Middle Mouse…” he repeated, relief surging through him. For weeks, he had been trying to figure out where the Ministry had moved her, but Kingsley wasn’t answering his owls, and Harry just shook his head and shrugged. He’d even kept Ginny in the dark, much to her obvious displeasure. 

“There should be a boat tied up near the old Coronation Tower of King Edward VII on the western shore of the point. If you go now, you may be able to catch low tide.” 

“Now?” 

Lu checked her wristwatch. “Yes, now,” she confirmed. With a twirl of her wand, she summoned consent forms and handed them over. “You can send these to me by owl tomorrow. We’ll plan to start work next Saturday.” 

“What about permits?” 

“They’ve made you paranoid.” Lu raised one golden eyebrow. “You’re covered under the St. Mungo’s general travel license, and your work is solely supervised by me, as a St. Mungo’s representative. The Ministry is not involved in our work in any way. Now, do you have any other reasons to delay what I assure you is a perfectly legal and reasonable request?” 

“None.” Draco hitched his satchel over his head. “I owe you, Lu.” 

“You owe _her_ ,” she corrected. “I’ll see you next week.” 

*

Draco walked up Middle Mouse’s rocky shore.The island was markedly more miserable than Barra Head – a small, low, misty spit of land with none of the drama of an abandoned lighthouse or sheer cliffs. A modest stone cabin that looked like a new construction sat at the island’s center, and its chimney puffed white smoke. His stomach dipped as he knocked on the door. 

He heard Hermione’s footsteps pad across the cabin’s floor. He could imagine her face, hurt and torn, eyes closed in focus as she steeled herself to see him. Something took his heart and squeezed. He pressed his hand to the door, trying to feel her through it. 

“You don’t have to let me in. I understand why I’m the last person you’d want to see.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

He looked at the papers in his hand, a strange grin playing over his lips. “Would you believe informed consent?” 

She yanked the door wide. Seeing her again was like viewing color in a world of black and white. Anger radiated off her, making her vivid and bright against the mute browns, greens, and greys of her new home. A pinkish glow accented her cheeks, and though she was still too thin, her eyes and hair shone. She looked healthy, like she had been brought back to life. He clenched his fists to keep from reaching out to touch her. 

“ _Now_ you care about consent? After arriving on Barra Head unannounced and changing everything without ever asking if I even wanted it?” 

“You only thought you knew what you wanted,” he countered. “A life alone, turning into a beast once a month, hating yourself and fearing everyone else —” 

“At least I was safe! You almost got me, yourself, and those two officers killed.” 

“Well, I didn’t. Everyone’s fine.” 

“I’m not! That monster’s picture was all over the _Prophet_ , and the Ministry couldn’t stop people from coming, so they moved me here.” She gestured around her, at the browning grass and craggy rocks. “This place is dead, Draco, and I’m dead with it. I can’t survive here, and it’s all because _you_ told Greengrass —” 

“I didn’t tell her anything!” Draco snapped, his temper flaring. “Astoria’s sister Daphne pushed the permits through, and your crotchety old Healer — Crumpt is his name, by the way — spilled everything. He’s the only other one who could’ve known this place like I do.” 

Hermione stepped away from him, taken aback, all the righteous anger seeping from her voice. “It wasn’t you?” 

“No!” he yelled on a frustrated laugh, throwing his hands into the air. “Why would I hurt you like that? What possible motive could I have had?” 

“Ginny saw you and Astoria in the Great Hall. She said you were close.” 

"Ginny doesn’t know _what_ she saw,” Draco said with a sneer. 

"And the mirror... I looked in the mirror and saw you together. You... You love her." 

His body moved without conscious thought, angling itself with such precision that it was like it had done this before, or imagined it so often that it had become instinct. His fingers slid over the scars on her cheek and buried in her hair, his other palm brought her hips to his, and his lips pressed against hers. 

Her entire body tensed, and she pressed a hand against his chest. He pulled away. 

"You love her," she repeated, brown eyes drawn in confusion. 

"That mirror showed you what you _expected_ to see," he said, voice a low growl. "I love _you_ , Hermione." He dipped his head to kiss her again. 

This time, she melted against him, the palm against his chest curling into his shirt to draw him closer, and Draco knew that she was his future. Hermione was the answer to what he had been missing at Hogwarts, the landing he had been waiting for since June, and the bookend to a season-long freefall into the next chapter of his life. 

When they next parted, Hermione was trembling and Draco’s breath came in quick, shallow puffs. All around them, the ocean's waves crested upon the island’s rocky shore, as steady and predictable as moonrise. 

**The End**


End file.
